OP-CENTER STATE OF SIEGE
  BY
  TOM CLANCY AND STEVE PIECZENIK
  Created by Tom Clancy and Steve
  BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be
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  TOM CLANCY'S OP-CENTER: STATE OF
SIEGE A Berkley Book still published
by arrangement with Jack Ryan Limited Partnership
and SandR Literary, Inc. PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition still July 1999 All rights
reserved. Copyright [*thorngg'1999
by Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and SandR
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Acknowledgments We would like to thank Jeff Rovin for
his creative ideas and his invaluable contribution to the
preparation of the manuscript. We would also like
to acknowledge the as-sistance of Martin H.
Greenberg, Larry Segriff, Robert
Youdelman, Esq., and the wonderful people at Penguin
Putnam Inc., including Phyllis Grann,
David Shanks, and Tom Colgan. As
always, we would like to thank Robert Gottlieb of The
William Morris Agency, our agent and friend,
without whom this book would never have been conceived. But most
important, it is for you, our readers, to determine
how successful our collective endeavor has
been.
  Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik
United Nations--The Security Council put the
final touches yesterday on a written demand that
Iraq co-operate with international arms
inspectors-but threatens no force if Baghdad
fails to comply. Associated Press, November
5, 1998
PROLOGUE Kampong Thorn, Cambodia
1993 She died while he held her under a
brilliant dawn. Her eyelids closed softly,
a faint breath rose from her delicate throat, and
then she was gone. Hang Sary looked down at the
pale face of the young woman. He looked at the
grass and dirt in her wet hair and the cuts in her
forehead and across her nose. He felt revulsion when
he saw the red lipstick on her mouth, the rouge that
had smeared across her cheek, and the charcoal-gray
mascara that had run from her eyes to her ears. This
wasn't how it was supposed to be. Not even
here, in a land where the concept of innocence was as foreign
as the dream of peace. Phum Sary should not have died so
young, and she should not have died like this. No one should die like
this, lying in a windy rice field, the cool water
muddy-red with their blood. But at least Phum had
died knowing who it was that held her in his arms. At
least she didn't die as she'd probably lived
most of her life, alone and uncherished. And though the
search that Hang had never quite abandoned was over, he
knew that another was about to begin. Hang's knees were
raised and his sister's head was in
2 OP-CENTER
  his lap. He lightly touched the cold tip of her
nose, the fine line of her jaw, her round mouth. A
mouth that always used to smile, regardless of what she was
doing. The girl felt so small and fragile. He
pulled her arms from the water and laid them on the
waist of her tight blue lame dress. He
cuddled her closer. He wondered if anyone had
held her like this in ten years. Had she lived this
horrible life the entire time? Had she finally had enough
and decided that death was preferable? Hang's long
face tightened as he thought about her life. Then it
exploded in tears. How could he have been so near and
not have known it? He and Ty had been in the
village, undercover, for nearly a week. Could he
ever forgive himself for not having seen her in time to save
her? Poor Ty would be inconsolable when she learned
who this was. Ty had been in the camp
reconnoitering, trying to find out who was behind this. She
had radioed Hang to let him know that one of the women
had apparently tried to escape shortly before
sunrise, when the watch changed. She'd been chased
and shot. Phum had taken the bullet in the side.
She'd probably run, then walked until she could
no longer move. Then she must have lain down here
to look at the waning night sky. Phum used
to look at the sky a great deal when she was a little
girl. Ty wondered if that sky, the memories of a
better time, had given his little sister any peace at
the end. Hang slipped his trembling fingers through his
sister's long, black hair. He heard splashing
in the distance. That would be Ty. He'd radioed his
partner that he'd spotted the girl and saw her go
down. She said she'd be there within a half hour. They
had been hoping, at least, that
she could give them a name, help them break the
monstrous union that was destroying so many young lives.
But that didn't happen. Seeing him, Phum only
had the strength to say his name. She died with her
brother's name and the hint of a smile on her bright red
lips, not the name of the creature who had done this. Ty
arrived and looked down. Dressed like a local
peasant, she stood there with the wind whispering around her.
And then she gasped. She knelt beside Hang and put
her arms around him. Neither of them moved or spoke for
several minutes. Then, slowly, Hang stood with his
sister's body in his arms. He carried her back
toward the old station wagon that served as his field
outpost. He knew they shouldn't leave Kampong
Thorn now. Not when they were so close to getting what
they needed. But he had to take his sister home. That
was where she should be laid to rest. The sun quickly warmed
and then baked his damp back. Ty opened the back
of the station wagon and spread a blanket amid the
cartons. Inside the boxes were weapons and radio
equipment, maps and lists, and a powerful incendiary
device. Hang wore the remote trigger hooked
around his belt. If they were ever caught, he would
destroy everything in the car. Then he would use the
.357 Smith and Wesson he carried to take his
own life. Ty would do likewise. With Ty's
help, Hang placed the body of his sister on the
blanket. Gently, he folded her inside. Before
leaving, he looked out across the field. It
had been made sacred with her blood. But the land would
not be clean until it was washed with the blood of those who
had done this.
  It would be. However long it took, he vowed that it
would be.
Paris, France Monday, 6:13 A.m.
  Seven years ago, during training for service with
UNTAC -- the United Nations Transitional
Authority in Cambodia-brash, adventuresome
Lieutenant Reynold Downer of the Ilthst28th
Battalion, the Royal Western Australia
Regiment, learned that there were three conditions that had
to be met before a United Nations peace-keeping
operation could be sent to any nation. It wasn't something
he'd ever wondered about or wanted to be a part of, but
the Commonwealth of Australia felt differently.
  First, the fifteen member nations of the UN
Security Council had to approve the operation and
its parameters in detail. Second, since the
United Nations does not have an army, member nations
of the General Assembly had to agree to contribute
troops as well as a force commander, who was put in
charge of deployment and execution of the multinational
army. Third, the warring nations had to consent to the
presence of the PKO.
  Once there, the peacekeepers had three goals.
The first was to establish and enforce a cease-fire while
the warring parties sought peaceful solutions. The
second was to create a buffer zone between the hostile
factions. And the third was to maintain the peace. This
included mil itary action when necessary, de-mining the
terrain so civilians could return to homes and
to food and water supplies, and also providing
humanitarian assistance.
  All of that was carefully explained to the light
infantry troops during two weeks of training at
Irwin Barracks, Stubbs Terrace,
Karrakatta. Two weeks that consisted of learning
local customs, politics, language, water
purification, and how to drive slowly, with one eye
on the dirt roads, so you didn't run over a
mine. Also learning not to blush when you caught a
glimpse of yourself in a powder blue beret and matching
ascot.
  When the UN indoctrination was done-"the gelding,"
as his commanding officer quite accurately described it--the
Australian contingent was spread among the
eighty-six cantonment sites in Cambodia.
Australia's own Lieutenant General John
M. Sanderson was force commander of the entire
UNTAC operation, which lasted from March 1992
to September 1993.
  The UNTAC mission was carefully designed
to avoid armed conflict. UN soldiers weren't
supposed to shoot unless fired upon, and only then
without escalating the hostilities. The deaths of any
enlisted personnel were to be investigated by the local
police, not by the military. Human rights were to be
encouraged through education, not force. Apart from serving as a
buffer, distributing food and offering health care were the
PKO'S top priorities. To Downer, being in the
field seemed less like a military operation than a
carnival. Come on, you warring or downtrodden
Third World peoples. Get your bread here, your
penicillin, your clean water. The circus feeling
was enhanced by tents that were topped with colorful banners
and local gawkers who weren't sure what to
  make of it all. Though many of them took what was
offered, they looked like they wished it would just go away.
Violence was an expected and understood part of their
daily lives. Outsiders were not.
  There was so little to do in Cambodia that Colonel
Ivan Georgiev, a high-ranking officer in the
Bulgarian People's Army, organized a
prostitution ring. They were protected
by officers of Pol Pot's renegade National
Army of Democratic Kampuchea, who needed
foreign currency to buy arms and supplies and were paid
25 percent of the take. Georgiev ran the ring from
tents erected behind his command post. Local girls
came for what were supposed to be radio UNTAC
language courses and stayed for an infusion of
foreign currency. That was where Downer first met both
Georgiev and Major Ishiro Sazanka.
Georgiev said that the soldiers of Japan and
Australia were his best customers, though the
Japanese tended to get rough with the girls and had
to be watched. "Polite sadists," the Bulgarian
had called them. Downer's uncle Thomas, who had
fought the Japanese as part of the 7th Australian
Division in the Southwest Pacific, would have
quarreled with that description. He didn't find the
Japanese at all polite.
  Downer helped to recruit new "language
students" for the tents, while Georgiev's other
aides found different ways of getting girls to work
for them--including kidnapping. The Khmer Rouge
helped gather new girls whenever possible.
Except for this sideline, Downer found Cambodia
a bore. The United Nations guidelines
were too soft, too restrictive. As he'd learned
growing up on the docks of Sydney, there was only
one guideline that mattered. Did some son of a
bitch deserve a bullet in the head? If he
did, pull the trigger and go home. If
  he didn't, what the hell were you doing there?
Downer took a last swallow of coffee and pushed the
heavy mug back along the vinyl-covered card table.
The coffee was good, black and bitter, the way he
drank it in the field. It made him feel
energized, ready to act. Maybe that wasn't a good
idea, here and now, where there was nothing to act against. But
he liked the feeling anyway.
  The Australian looked at the watch on his
sun-darkened wrist. Where the hell were they?
  The group was usually back by eight o'clock. How
long did it take to make a videotape of something
they'd videotaped six times already?
  The answer was that it took as long as Captain
Vandal needed it to take. Vandal was in charge of this
phase of the operation. And if the French officer
weren't so efficient, none of them would be here. Vandal
was the one who got them all into the country, had
acquired the hardware, had supervised the recon, and
would get them out of here so they could start phase
two of the operation, which would be run by Georgiev.
  Downer fished a graham cracker from an open
box and snapped at it impatiently. The taste, the
crispness, brought him back to his arms training in the
outback, The unit lived on these things there. He
looked around the small, dark apartment as he chewed.
His soft blue eyes moved from the kitchen on the right
to the TV across the room to the front door. Vandal
had rented this place over two years before. The
Frenchman admitted that luxury was not a consideration.
The one-room, first-floor flat was located on a
crooked little street just off the Boulevard de la
Bastille, not far from the large bureau de poste.
Apart from the location,
  the only thing that was important was that they be on the
first floor of the building for a window escape if
necessary. As Vandal had promised when the five of them
pooled their savings for this operation, he would spend
extravagantly only on forged documents,
surveillance gear, and weapons.
  As the tall, powerfully built Downer brushed
crumbs from his faded blue jeans, he glanced at the
oversized duffel bags lying in a row between the TV
and the window. He was baby-sitting the five lumpy
bags filled with weapons. Vandal had done
his job there. AK-47'S, hand-guns, tear gas,
grenades, a rocket launcher. All of them
unmarked and untraceable, bought through Chinese arms
dealers the Frenchman had met while the PKO was in
Cambodia. God bless the United Nations,
Downer thought. Tomorrow morning, shortly after dawn, the
men would load the bags onto the truck they'd bought.
Vandal and Downer would drop Sazanka,
Georgiev, and Barone at the factory helipad
and then time their departure so everyone could meet again
later at the target. The target, Downer thought. So
ordinary yet so vital to the rest of the operation. The
Australian's eyes returned to the table. There was
a white ceramic bowl sitting beside the phone. The
bowl was filled with black paste-burned diagrams
and notes soaked in tap water. The notes contained
everything from calculations about approximate tail
winds and head winds at one thousand feet up at
eight in the morning to traffic flow to the police
presence on the Seine. Ashes could still be
deciphered; wet ashes were useless. Just one more stinking
day of this, he told himself. When the rest of the team
returned, there'd be one
  more afternoon of studying videotapes, making sure they
had everything covered for this phase of the operation.
One more night of drawing maps for this part of the operation,
then calculating flight times, bus schedules,
street names, and the location of arms dealers in New
York for the next phase. Just to make sure they'd
memorized them all. And then there'd be one more dawn
of burning everything they'd written so the police would
never find it here or in the trash.
  Downer's eyes drifted across the room to the
sleeping bags on the floor. They sat in front
of a sofa, the only other piece of furniture in the
room. There was a big window fan in the room's
only window, and it had been running constantly during
this heat wave. Vandal assured him that the
hundred-plus temperatures were good for the plan. The
target was vented, not air-conditioned, and the men inside
were going to be a little more sluggish than usual. Not like
us, Downer thought. He and his teammates had a
goal. Downer thought of the four other ex-soldiers who
were involved in the project. He'd met them all in
Phnom Penh, and each of them had a very different, very
personal reason for being here. A key rattled in the
front door. Downer reached for his Type 64
silenced pistol, tucked in a holster hanging from the
back of the wooden chair. He gently pushed the
graham cracker box aside so he had a
clear shot at the door. He remained seated. The
only person other than Vandal who had a key was the
superintendent. In the three times Downer had stayed
at the apartment during the past year, the old man
only came by when he was calledand sometimes not even
then. If it were any one else, they didn't belong
here, and they'd die. Downer half-hoped it was someone
he didn't know. He was in the mood to pull the
trigger.
  The door opened and Etienne Vandal walked in.
His longish brown hair was slicked back and he was
wearing sunglasses, a video camera carrying
case slung casually over his left shoulder. He
was followed by the bald, barrel-chested Georgiev,
the short and swarthy Barone, and the tall,
broad-shouldered Sazanka. All of the men were wearing
touristy T-shirts and blue jeans. They also
wore the same, flat expressions.
  Sazanka shut the door. He shut it
quietly, politely. Downer sighed. He
slipped the firearm back in its hol-ster. "How'd
it go?" the Australian asked. Downer's voice was
still rich with the tight gutturals of western New
South Wales.
  "Ewed ih gow?" Barone said, mimicking
the Australian's thick accent.
  "Stop that," Vandal told him.
  "Yes, sir," Barone replied. He threw the
officer a casual salute and frowned at Downer.
  Downer didn't like Barone. The cocky little man
had something none of the other men possessed: an
attitude. He acted as though everyone were a
potential enemy, even his allies. Barone also had
a good ear. He'd worked as a custodian at the
American embassy when he was a teenager and had
lost most of his accent. The one thing that kept Downer
from lashing out at the younger man was they both knew that if
the little Uruguayan ever crossed the line too far,
the six-foot-four-inch Australian could and would
pull him in two. Vandal put the case on the table
and popped the tape from the camera. He walked over
to the TV.
  "I think the surveillance went fine," Vandal
said. "The traffic patterns appear to be the same
as they were last week. But we'll compare the tapes,
just to make sure."
  "For the last time, I hope," Barone said. "We
all hope," Downer said.
  "Yes, but I'm anxious to move," the
twenty-nine-year-old officer said. He
did not say where he wanted to move. A group of
foreigners meeting in a rundown flat never knew
who might be eavesdropping. Sazanka sat
silently on the sofa and untied his Nikes. He
massaged his thick feet. Barone tossed him a
bottled water from the refrigerator in the
kitchenette. The Japanese grunted his thanks.
Sazanka's command of English was the weakest, and he
tended to say very little. Downer shared his uncle's view
of the Japanese, and Sazanka's silence made him
happy. Ever since Downer was a child, Japanese
sailors, tourists, and speculators had been
all over the harbor in Sydney. If they didn't
act as though they owned it, they acted as though one day
they would. Unfortunately, Sazanka could fly a
variety of aircraft. The group needed his
skills. Barone handed a bottle to Georgiev,
who was standing behind him. "Thank you," Georgiev said.
  They were the first words Downer had heard the
Bulgarian speak since dinner the night before-even
though he spoke nearly perfect English, having
worked for almost ten years as a Central Intelligence
Agency contact in Sofia. Georgiev hadn't
talked a lot in Cambodia, either. He'd kept
an eye out for their Khmer Rouge contacts as
well as undercover government police or UN
human rights observers. The Bulgarian preferred
to lis ten, even when nothing was being discussed. Downer
wished he himself had the patience for that. Good listeners
could hear things in casual conversation, when people had their
guard down, that often proved valuable. "Want
one?" Barone asked Vandal. The Frenchman shook
his head.
  Barone looked at Downer. "I'd offer you a
bottle, but I know you'd refuse. You like it hot.
Boiling." "Warm beverages are better for you,"
Downer replied. "They make you sweat. Cleans the
system." "As if we don't sweat enough," Barone
commented. "I don't," Downer said. "And it's a good
sensation. Makes you feel productive.
Alive."
  "When you're with a lady, sweating is great,"
Barone said. "In here, it's self-punishment."
  "That can be a good feeling, too," Downer said.
"To a psychotic, maybe."
  Downer grinned. "And aren't we, mate?"
"Enough," Vandal said as the videotape began
to play.
  Downer was a talker, too. In his case, the sound
of his own voice comforted him. He used
to talk himself to sleep when he was a kid, tell himself
stories to drown out the sound of his drunken dockworker
father slapping around whatever cheap woman he was with in
their rickety wooden apartment. Talking was a habit
Downer never gave up.
  Barone walked into the room. He popped the seal
on his own water bottle, chugged it down in a long
swallow, then pulled up a chair and sat beside
Downer. He snatched a graham cracker and
chomped it down as they all watched the nineteen-inch
TV set. He leaned toward Downer.
  "I don't like what you said," Barone whispered.
"A psychotic is irrational. I am not."
  "If you say so."
  "Ah dew, was Barone said, imitating Downer, this
time with an edge. Downer let it go. Unlike
Barone, he realized that he only needed the man's
skills, not his approval.
  The men watched the twenty-minute tape through
once, then watched it again. Before watching it a third
time, Vandal joined Downer and Barone at the
rickety table. Barone had gotten himself focused.
He was a former revolutionary who had helped found the
short-lived Consejo de Seguridad
Nacional, which had ousted the corrupt
President Bordaberry. His expertise was
explosives. Downer's experience was firearms,
rockets, and hand-to-hand combat. Sazanka flew.
Georgiev had the contacts to obtain whatever they
needed through the black market, which was tapped into all the
resources of " the former Soviet Union, its
clients in the Middle and Far East, and in the
United States. Georgiev had recently
returned from New York, where he spent time
arranging for weapons through a Khmer Rouge arms
supplier and working with his intelligence contact, going
over the target itself. All of that would be needed during
the second part of the operation.
  But part two was not on their minds right now. First part
one had to succeed. Together, the three men single-framed
through the tape, making sure that the explosion they
planned would get them through the target zone without
destroying anything else. After spending four hours
on the tape and the rest of the afternoon meeting in the field
with Vandal's local contacts to review the truck,
helicopter, and other equip ment they'd be using
here, the team ate at a sidewalk cafe. Then they
returned to the room to rest.
  As anxious as the men were, they all slept.
They had to. Tomorrow, they would begin
to inaugurate a new era in international relations.
One that would not only change the world by calling
attention'to a big lie but would also make them rich.
As Downer lay on top of his sleeping bag, he
enjoyed the gentle breeze of the open window. He
pictured himself being somewhere else. His own island,
perhaps. Maybe even his own country. And he calmed
himself by listening to the voice in his head telling him all
the things he could do with his share of two hundred and
fifty million dollars.
  TWO
  Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland Sunday,
12:10 A.m. When he'd ended his tenure as the
mayor of Los Angeles, Paul Hood
decided that cleaning out one's desk was a misnomer.
What you were really doing was mourning, just like at a
funeral. You were remembering the good and the sad, the
bittersweet and the rewards, the accomplishments and the
unfinished business, the love and sometimes the hate.
  The hate, he thought, his hazel eyes narrowing.
He was full of it now, though he wasn't sure at
whom or what or why. Hate wasn't the reason
he'd resigned as the first director of Op-
Center, the U.s. government's elite crisis
management team. He'd done that to spend more
time with his wife, his daughter, and his son. To keep his
family intact. But he was full of it just the same.
  At Sharon? he wondered suddenly,
half-ashamed. Are you mad at your wife for making
you choose?
  He tried to sort through that as he cleaned out his
desk, dropping declassified memories into a
cardboard box--the classified files and even
personal letters therein had to stay. He couldn't
believe he'd only been here two and one-half
years. That wasn't a long time compared to many jobs.
But he'd worked cockpit-close with the
  people here and he was going to miss them. There was also what
his intelligence chief Bob Herbert once
described as "a pornographic excitement" in the
work. Lives, sometimes millions of them, were
affected by the wise or instinctive or occasionally
desperate decisions he and his team had made here.
It was like Herbert had said. Hood never felt like a
god making those decisions. He felt like an
animal. Every sense hair-trigger alert, nervous
energy at a high boil.
  He was going to miss those feelings, too. He
opened a small plastic box that held a paper
clip General Sergei Orlov had given
him. Orlov was the head of the Russian op-center,
a facility code-named Mirror Image.
Op-Center had helped Mirror Image prevent
renegade Russian officers and politicians from
throwing Eastern Europe into war. The paper clip
had a fiber-thin microphone inside. It had been
used by Colonel Leonid Rossky to spy on
potential rivals of Minister of the Interior
Nikolai Dogin, one of the organizers of the war
effort.
  Hood put the plastic box in the cardboard
carton and looked at a small, black piece of
twisted metal. The shard was stiff and light, the ends
bubbled and charred. It was part of the skin of a North
Korean Nodong missile It had melted when
Op-Center's military unit, Striker,
destroyed the weapon before it could be launched at
Japan. Hood's second-in-command, General
Mike Rodgers, had brought the fragment back for
him.
  My second-in-command, Hood thought.
Technically, Hood would be on vacation for two
weeks before his resignation took effect. Mike would
be acting director until then. Hood hoped the
president would give Mike
  the job full time after that. It would be a terrible
blow to Mike if he didn't.
  Hood picked up the Nodong fragment. It was like
holding a piece of his life. Japan was spared an
attack, one to two million lives saved.
Several lives lost. This memento and others like it were
passive, but the memories they triggered were anything
but. He put the fragment back in the carton. The
hum of air coming from the overhead vents seemed
unusually loud. Or maybe the office was just
unusually silent? The night crew was on, and the
phone wasn't ringing. Footsteps weren't coming to or
from his door. Hood quickly went through the other
memories tucked in the top drawer of his desk.
  There were postcards from the kids when they vacationed at
Grandma's--not like this last time, when his wife took
them there while she decided whether or not to leave him.
There were books he'd read on airplanes with
notes scribbled in the margins, things he had
to remember to do when he got where he was going or when
he returned. And there was a brass key from the
hotel in Hamburg, Germany, where he bumped
into Nancy Jo Bosworth, a woman he'd loved
and planned to marry. Nancy had walked out of his
life over twenty years before without an
explanation.
  Hood held the brass key in his palm. He
resisted the urge to slip it into his pocket, feel
like he was back at the hotel, just for a moment.
Instead, Hood placed the key in the box.
Returning to the girl, even in memory, who'd
walked out of his life, wasn't going to help save
his family.
  Hood shut the top drawer. He'd told
Sharon that he would take her on one big last-night
of having-an-
  expense-account dinner, and there was no excuse
to miss it. He'd already said his last good-byes to the
office workers, and the senior staff had thrown him a
surprise party that afternoon--even though it wasn't much
of a surprise. When intelligence chief Bob
Herbert had E-mailed everyone the time and date,
he'd forgotten to remove Hood's E-mail
address from his list. Paul had pretended to be
surprised when he walked into the conference room. He
was just glad that Herbert didn't make mistakes like
that as a rule. Hood opened the bottom drawer.
He took out his personal address book, the
crossword puzzle CD-ROM he'd never
gotten to use, and the scrapbook of daughter
Harleigh's violin recitals. He'd missed
too damn many of those. The four of them would be going
to New York at the end of the week so Harleigh could
perform with other young Washington virtuosi at a
function for United Nations ambassadors.
Ironically, they were celebrating a major peace
initiative in Spain, where Op-Center had been
involved in helping to prevent a civil war.
Unfortunately, the public-parents included-were
not in- vited. Hood would have been curious to see
how the new secretary- general, Mala
Chatterjee, handled her first public affair. She
had been chosen after Secretary-General Massimo
Marcello Manni had suffered a fatal heart
attack. Though the young woman wasn't as
experienced as other candidates, she was committed to the
struggle for human rights through peaceful means.
Influential nations like the United States,
Germany, and Japan--which saw her strong stand as a
means to tweak China-helped her get the appointment.
Hood left the government phone directory, a
monthly terminology bulletin--the latest names of
nations and
  their leaders-and a thick book of military
acronyms. Unlike Herbert and General
Rodgers, Hood had never served in the military.
He'd always felt self-conscious about never having
risked his life in the service, especially when he
had to send Striker into the field. But, as
Op-Center's FBI liaison Darrell
McCaskey once pointed out, "That's why we
call this a team. Everyone brings different skills
to the table."
  Hood paused when he came to a stack of
photos in the bottom of the drawer. He removed the
rubber band and looked through them. Among the pictures
of barbecues and photo-ops with world leaders were
snapshots of Striker's Private Bass
Moore, of Striker commander Lieutenant
Colonel Charlie Squires, and of Op-Center's
political and economic liaison Martha
Mackall. Private Moore died in North
Korea, Lieutenant Colonel Squires lost
his life on a mission in Russia, and Martha had
been assassinated just a few days before on the
streets of Madrid Spain. Hood replaced the
rubber band and put the stack of pictures in the
carton.
  He closed the last drawer. He picked up his
well-worn City of Los Angeles
mousepad and Camp David coffee mug and placed
them in the box. As he did, he noticed someone
standing to his left, just outside the open office
door.
  "Need any help?"
  Hood smiled lightly. He ran a hand through his
wavy black hair. "No, but you can come in. What
are you doing here so late?" "Checking the Far
Eastern newspaper headlines for tomorrow," she said.
"We've got some disinformation out there."
  "About?"
  "I can't tell you," she said. "You don't work
here anymore." "Touchd," he replied, smiling.
  Ann Farris smiled back as she walked
slowly into the office. The Washington Times once
described her as one of the twenty-five most
eligible young divorcees in the nation's capital.
Nearly six years later, she still was.
Op-Center's five-foot-seven-inch-tall press
liaison was wearing a tight black skirt and white
blouse. Her dark rust eyes were large and warm, and
they softened the anger Hood was feeling.
  "I promised myself I wasn't going to bother
you," the tall, slender woman said.
  "But here you are." "Here I am."
  "And it's not a bother," he added.
  Ann stopped beside the desk and looked down at
him. Her long, brown hair fell along her face
and over the front of her shoulders. Looking at her
eyes and smile, Hood was reminded of all the times
during the past two and a half years that she'd
encouraged him, helped him, made no secret that
she cared for him. "I didn't want to bother you,"
she said, "but I also didn't want to say good-bye
at a party."
  "I understand. I'm glad you're here."
  Ann sat on the edge of the desk. "What are you
going to do, Paul? Do you think you'll stay in
D.c.?"
  "I don't know. I was thinking about going back to the
financial world," he said. "I've arranged to see
a few people after we get back from New York. If
that doesn't work out, I don't know. Maybe
I'll settle in some small rural town and open
an accounting practice.
  Taxes, money market, a Range Rover, and
raking leaves. It wouldn't be a bad life."
  "I know. I lived it."
  "And you don't think I can."
  "I don't know," she said. "What are you
going to do when the children are gone? My own son's
scratching on teenagerhood and I'm already thinking about
what I'll do when he leaves for college."
"What will you do?" Hood asked.
  "Unless some wonderful, middle-aged guy with
black hair and hazel eyes carries me off
to Antigua or Tonga?" she asked. "Yes,"
Hood said, flushing. "If that doesn't happen.
"I'll probably buy a house somewhere in the
middle of one of those islands and write. Real
fiction. Not the stuff I give the Washington
Press Corps every day. There are some stories I
want to tell."
  The former political reporter and one-time press
secretary to Connecticut Senator Bob
Kaufmann did indeed have stories to tell.
Tales of spin-doctoring, affairs, and
back-stabbing in the corridors of power.
  Hood sighed. He looked at his
depersonalized desk. "I don't know what
I'll do. I've got some personal things to work
on." "With your wife, you mean."
  "With Sharon," he said softly. "If I
succeed, then the future will take care of itself."
  Hood had made a point of saying his
wife's name because it made her seem more real, more
present. He did that because Ann was pushing more than
usual. This would be her last chance to talk to him here,
where the memories of a long, close professional
relationship, of
  triumph and mourning, and of sexual. tension were
suddenly very vivid.
  "Can I ask you something?" Ann said. "Sure."
  Her eyes lowered. So did her voice. "How
long will you give it?" "How long?" Hood said under
his breath. He shook his head. "I don't know,
Ann. I really don't." He looked at her for a
long moment. "Now let me ask you something."
  "Sure," she said. "Anything." Her eyes were
even softer than before. He didn't understand why he was
doing this to himself. "Why me?" he asked.
  She seemed surprised. "Why do I care about
you?" "Is that what this is? Care?"
  "No," she admitted quietly. "Then tell
me why," he pressed. "It isn't obvious?"
  "No," he said. "Governor Vegas.
Senator Kaufmann. The president of the United
States. You've been close to some of the most
dynamic men in the nation. I'm not like them. I ran
from the arena, Ann." "No. You left it,"
she said. "There's a difference. You left because you were
tired of the smears, of the political correctness, of
having to watch every word. Honesty is very appealing,
Paul. So is intelligence. So is keeping cool
when all those charismatic politicians and generals
and foreign leaders are running around swinging their
sabres."
  "Steady Paul Hood," he said.
  "What's wrong with that?" Ann asked.
  "I don't know," Hood said. He stood and
picked up the carton. "What I do know is that
something's wrong somewhere in my life, and I need
to find out what it is."
  Ann also rose. "Well, if you need any
help looking for it, I'm available. If you want
to talk, have coffee, dinner just call." "I will,"
Hood smiled. "And thanks for stopping by.,,
"Sure," she said.
  He motioned with the carton for Ann to go first. She
left the office briskly, without looking back.
If there was sadness or temptation in her eyes,
Hood was spared both. He shut the office door
behind him. It closed gently but with a solid, final
click.
  As he walked past the cubicles to the
elevator, Hood accepted good wishes from the night
team. He rarely saw them, since Bill Abram
and Curt Hardaway ran things after seven. There were
so many young faces. So many go-getters. Steady
Paul Hood was definitely feeling like an
antique.
  Hopefully, the trip to New York would give
him time to think, time to try and fix his relationship with
Sharon. He reached the elevator, stepped in, and
took a last look at the complex that had taken so
much of his time and spirit-but had also given him those
adrenaline jolts. There was no point lying to himself:
He was going to miss it. All of it.
  As the door shut, Hood found himself getting
angry again. Whether he was angry at what he was
leaving or what he was going to, he just didn't know.
Op-Center
  psychologist Liz Gordon once told him that
confusion was a term we'd invented to describe an
order of things that was not yet understood.
  He hoped so. He truly did.
  THREE
  Paris, France Tuesday, 7:32 A.m.
  Every section of Paris is rich with something, be it
history, hotels, museums, monuments,
caf6's, shops, markets, or even sunshine. Just
northeast of the Seine, beyond the half-kilometer-
long Le Port de Plaisance de Paris de
1'Arsenal-a canal for recreational boating-is a
region rich with something a little different: post
offices. There are two of them a few blocks apart
on the Boulevard Diderot and a third building between
them, just to the north. Other post offices are
scattered throughout the district. Most of them derive
the bulk of their business from the tourists who come
to Paris year round.
  Each morning at five-thirty, an armored
truck operated by the Banque de Commerce begins
its rounds of these post offices. It carries an
armed driver and one armed guard up front and another
armed guard in back, along with postage stamps,
money orders, and postal cards to deliver to the five
post offices. When it completes its rounds, the
armored truck is carrying canvas sacks loaded
with the counted, banded cash collected by each post office
the day before. Typically, the cash is international
currency equivalent to three-quarters of a
million to one million U.s. dollars. The
truck follows the same route every day, making
  its way northwest and then turning up the
heavily traveled Boulevard de la Bastille.
Once the armored car is past the Place de la
Bastille, it deposits its cargo at. a bank
building on the Boulevard Richard Lenoir. The
policy of the Banque de Commerce, like many armored
car companies, is to adhere to the same path every day.
That way, the drivers will know the route and its character and
recognize any changes. If there's an
electrical team working on a streetlight or a
road crew working on a pothole, the driver is
informed ahead of time. A two-way radio is always
turned on in the cab and is monitored by a dispatcher
at the Banque de Commerce office across the river
on the Rue Cuvier near the Jardin des
Plantes.
  The one constant-paradoxically, the one constant that
always changes-is traffic. The men watch from behind
bulletproof windshields as faster-moving cars and
trucks weave around the heavily armored four-ton
vehicle. Along Le Port de 1'Arsenal,
boat traffic is also constant, mostly
motorboats from fourteen to forty feet in length.
They come here from the river so that crews can dine, rest,
take on fuel, or undergo repairs at the
docks. The men in the armored truck did not
notice anything unusual on this sunlit morning
except for the heat, which was even worse than it had
been the day before. And it wasn't even eight A.m.
yet. Though their dark gray caps were hot and snug,
the men wore them to keep the sweat from dripping into their
eyes. The driver wore an MR F1
revolver; the guard in the passenger's seat and the man
in the back both carried FAMA assault
rifles.
  Traffic was heavy at this hour, as trucks made
deliveries and small cars maneuvered to get around
them.
  None of the men in the armored car thought anything was out
of the ordinary when a truck in front of them slowed
to let a Citroen pass. The truck was an old
rig with battered, dirty-white metal siding and a
green canvas curtain in the back. The driver's
eyes drifted to the left, toward the canal. "I
tell you," he said. "I would like to be out there today on
my little Whaler. The sun, the rocking of the waves, the
quiet."
  The other man's eyes snapped over as thecom masts
and trees rushed by. "I'd be bored."
  "That's because you like to hunt. Me? I'd be content
to sit in the breeze with my cassette
player and fishing-was The driver swallowed the rest of the
sentence and frowned. Neither the caps not the weapons
nor the open radio nor the familiarity of the route
mattered when the old truck in front stopped
suddenly, and the curtain in back was pulled aside.
A man stood in the back. Another man walked
around from the passenger's side. Both wore
camouflage uniforms, bulletproof vests, gas
masks, equipment belts, and thick rubber
gloves. Each man held a shoulder-mounted
rocket-propelled grenade launcher. The man in
the truck leaned to the passenger's side slightly,
angling himself so that the back of the RPG was facing
away from the cab of their truck. The other man stood
on the street, the RPG angled upward slightly.
  The guard in the truck reacted immediately.
"Emergency!" he said into the open microphone.
"Two masked men in truck, license 101763,
have stopped in front of us. They are armed with rocket
launchers." A heartbeat later, the men fired.
  There was a faint whoosh as twin spikes of yellow
  orange flame shot from the rear of the grenade
launchers. At the same time, a smooth, steel
jacketed, pear-shaped projectile rocketed from the
barrel of each tube. The grenades hit the
windshield on either side and exploded. The guard in
the passenger seat raised his gun.
  "The windshield held!" the guard cried
triumphantly. The driver looked into the right and
left side mirrors. Then he started to nose to the
right, into oncoming traffic.., "Attempting
evasive maneuver to the north lanes-was he said.
  Suddenly, both men screamed.
  High-end bulletproof glass, made of
plastic laminate, is designed to withstand even
close-proximity blasts from hand grenades. It
may shatter in a single-hole or web pattern, but
it'll hold without fragmentation for one or possibly
two assaults. After that, there are no guarantees.
Whoever is behind the glass-the driver of an armored
car or limousine, the employee at a bank,
prison, parking or transit booth, or federal
office building-is supposed to call for backup and
evacuate the target area if possible. In the
case of an armored car, even if the occupants
can't drive off, the driver and passenger are both
armed. In theory, once the glass is breached, the
attackers are equally at risk. But the grenades
that had been fired from the truck were two- chambered.
The front chamber contained an explosive.
The larger back chamber, which was shattered in the blast,
contained disulphuric acid.
  The windshield had broken the same way in two
spots, a sunburst pattern caused
by high-velocity fragmentation: a nearly inch-wide
crater at the center with filament-thin cracks
radiating from it. Some of the acid had been blown through
the hole, splattering the driver
  and passenger in the face and lap. The rest of the
acid ate through the cracks by dissolving the
non-chemically inert polymers that were a component of the
glass.
  Etienne Vandal and Reynold Downer slung the
grenade launchers over their shoulders. Downer
jumped from the back as the armored car slammed into the
right rear corner of the truck. The truck skidded to the
right, the armored car to the left, and both came to a
stop. Vandal and Downer jumped onto the hood of the
armored car. All they had to do was kick the
windshield to knock it in. It came apart just as
Vandal had said it would. The glass was thicker and
heavier than Downer had expected, and the acid
residue caused the rubber heel of his boot
to smoke. But he only had a moment to think about that.
The Australian pulled an automatic from
a holster he wore on his right hip. He was standing
on the passenger's side. As cars in the other
lanes slowed and watched and then sped away, Downer
fired a single shot into the forehead of the guard. Vandal
did the same on the other side.
  The lone guard in the sealed cargo compartment called
the dispatcher from his own secure radio in the back.
Vandal had known he would do that because, after leaving the
military with an impeccable record, the lieutenant
had easily landed work as a security guard for the
Banque de Commerce armored cars. He had served
on an armored vehicle just like this one for nearly
seven months. Vandal also knew that at this point in
the journey, with traffic as heavy as it was, it would
take the police emergency response team at
least ten minutes to get there, And that was more than enough time
to finish the job.
  From studying the videotapes, the men had
  ascertained that the armor used in the cars hadn't
changed in the months since Vandal had left his
post. In the military, upgrades of vehicles were
ongoing in order to keep up with new ammunition
ranging from armor-piercing plasma jets to more powerful
land mines, as well as strategic needs such as
lighter weight for greater speed and mobility.
However, the private sector was slower to make
changes.
  Careful to avoid the acid that was still burning through the
dashboard, Reynold Downer slid into the cab.
Between the seats, on the floor, was a deep, narrow
well that was used to store extra ammunition. It was
accessible from both the front and back of the armored
car, Downer pushed the dead guard against the cab door
and opened the panel that accessed the ammunition
chamber. Then he reached down to his belt and
removed a small chunk of C-4 from one of the
pouches. He snaked his right hand into the well, fixed
the C-4 to the panel that opened into the rear of the van,
and plugged in a small timer. He set it for
fifteen seconds, then dropped a tear gas
canister behind it and shut the door. Climbing over the
dead guard, he opened the door and stepped onto the
roadway. While Downer was doing that, Vandal
knelt on the hood. He took a pair of tin
shears from his equipment belt and pulled back the
driver's right-hand sleeve. The key that unlocked the
back of the van was on a metal band attached to the
driver's wrist. Vandal pulled the man's forearm
toward him and snipped through the band. As he did, the
C-4 exploded. It not only ripped a
hole in the rear panel, it destroyed the container of
tear gas. Though some of the gas leaked into the cab, the
bulk of it poured into the back.
  Traffic had stopped well behind the armored car.
The road was clear and the backup would slow police
even more. When Vandal was finished, he slid from the
hood and joined Downer around back. Neither man
spoke. There was always a chance that the open radio would
pick up their voices. As Downer stood watch,
Vandal unlocked the door. Gas rolled out as he
opened it, along with the gasping security guard. He
had tried to get the gas mask that was stored in a chest
in the back. Unfortunately, the mask had been
placed there with the expectation that a gas strike would be
made outside the van, not inside. He never reached
the chest, let alone the mask. The guard hit the
asphalt and Downer stomped hard on the side of his
head. The man stopped moving, though he was still
breathing. As Vandal climbed inside, Downer heard
the distant hum of an approaching helicopter. The
black Hughes 500Do swung in from over the
river, which was where Sazanka's family owned a
waterfront shipping facility. The Japanese
pilot had stolen the helicopter so it couldn't be
traced to them. He slowed as he flew over
the boulevard. The Hughes has exceptional flight
stability in slow and hover modes, as well as a
tolerable downdraft. It also has room for five people
and cargo, which was perhaps the most important consideration.
  Barone, who had been driving the truck, ran
back. As the Uruguayan pulled on his gas
mask, Georgiev opened the aft door of the
helicopter. He lowered a line with a hook.
Attached to the iron hook was a
twelve-by-seven-foot metal platform with large
nylon nets along the sides. While Downer
made certain that no one interfered, Vandal and Barone
stood in the thinning clouds of tear gas and loaded the
sacks of money onto the platform. At
  five minutes into the operation, Georgiev hauled
up the first load. Downer glanced at his watch. They
were running slightly behind schedule. "We need
to speed things up!" he shouted into the specially
built-in mask radio.
  "Calm down," Barone said. "We're within the
safety net." "That's not good enough," Downer said.
"I want to be dead center, in the sweet spot."
  "When you're in charge, then you give the orders!"
Barone said. "Same goes for you, mate," Downer
snapped. Barone shot him a look through the
faceplate of his gas mask just as the platform came
back down. The men threw in a second batch.
They heard police sirens in the distance, but Downer
wasn't worried. If necessary, they had the
unconscious guard as a hostage. Fifty feet
above, Sazanka watched the skies. The only
event that would cause them to abort the mission and move
out was the arrival of a police helicopter.
Sazanka was looking out for that with the cockpit radar
unit. Downer was watching Sazanka. If there was a
blip, Sazanka would signal, and they'd move out.
  The second load of bags went up. There was one
more to go. Traffic had backed up nearly a quarter
mile when people realized what was going on. There was no
way to get through. The police would have to respond either
with members of La Brigade tquestre or by air.
The men continued to work quickly but efficiently. There was
no sense of panic.
  The third load went in. Suddenly, Sazanka
raised his finger and moved it around in a quick circle.
Then he pointed to the left. There was a police
helicopter en route
  from the west. Georgiev lowered the platform again.
As they'd planned, Barone climbed in, followed
by Vandal. The Bulgarian didn't reel the
net in. Instead, the men all removed their gas
masks, hooked them to their equipment belts, and
began climbing the line. When the men were
respectively twenty and ten feet up, Downer
hopped onto the platform. Now Georgiev began
reeling it in. While it rose, Downer steadied
himself by holding the net siding with one hand while with the
other he pulled the grenade launcher from his shoulder.
Then he pulled off his gas mask so he could see more
clearly, lay on his side, removed a
projectile from the grenade pouch on his belt, and
loaded the weapon. Above him, Georgiev helped
Barone and Vandal climb back into the helicopter.
Sazanka climbed, quickly pushing the chopper to its
maximum cruising speed of 160 mph. As he
did, Downer made sure that both the barrel and the
exhaust of the launcher were poking through the mesh siding.
He didn't want to incinerate the net and fall
to his death.
  Georgiev secured the platform with cables run
through two eye hooks on the front and back side
nearest the helicopter, but he left it hanging
three feet below the open door of the helicopter's
aft compartment. From here, Downer could cover pursuit
from any direction. Being close to the
underbelly would also keep him from being knocked around by the
winds and by the down-draft from the rotor. And it would be
much more difficult for a sharpshooter on the ground or in
the air to notice him in the shadow of the chopper.
  While they waited for a possible pursuit,
Sazanka held them to one thousand feet and took them
northwest along the river. A small plane was
waiting for them at
  a tiny airstrip outside of Saint-Germain.
Once the men and money bags had been transferred
from the chopper, they would fly south into Spain. There, the
chaos of the simmering civil war would make it easy for
them to buy their way in and then out of the country. "There it
is!" Georgiev shouted down. The big man was
pointing toward the southwest.
  Downer didn't have to look up to see where the
Bulgarian was pointing. He'd also just spotted the
police helicopter. It was about two thousand feet
up and a half mile away. As Vandal had
expected, it was from the French Gendarmerie's
Special Intervention Group.
  The white and blue police chopper flew toward
them in a sweeping, downward arc. The SIG team
would follow their usual operating procedure. They'd
attempt to raise the fleeing chopper
by radio, which they were probably doing now. When the men
didn't respond, the police chopper would stay in
constant radio contact with ground forces. Even if
they had medium-range weapons, the police wouldn't
attempt to shoot the chopper down. Not as long as it
was over a populated area and carrying a million
dollars in currency. When the Hughes landed, both
air and land units would close in on it.
  Vandal knew that the Paris police department
relied on radar from the two nearby airports
to monitor the skies over the city. They used
Charles de Gaulle to the northeast in
Roissyen-France and Orly to the south. Vandal also
knew that when an aircraft dropped under two
hundred and fifty feet, radar was ineffective
due to interference from surrounding buildings. He had
Sazanka keep the Hughes at one thousand feet.
  The police chopper came closer. The hotels
of the northern bank of the river passed beneath them in quick
  succession. To his right, across the river, Downer
saw the Eiffel Tower, dark and spidery in the misty
morning. They were flying level with the top of the
structure.
  The pursuing helicopter closed to within a quarter
mile. They were still several hundred feet
higher than the vehicle they were pursuing. The range
of the grenade launcher was one thousand feet. According to the
read-out on the digital sight, the chopper was just out of
range. Downer looked up at Georgiev.
Vandal and Georgiev had both agreed that conversation
over radios and cellular phones was too easy
to intercept. Thus, once their gas masks were off,
communication had to be muscular and old-fashioned.
"I need to be closer!" Downer yelled.
  The Bulgarian cupped his thick hands around his
mouth. "How much closer?" he shouted.
  "Two hundred feet higher, three hundred
feet back!" Georgiev nodded. A door
separated the cockpit from the aft cabin. The
Bulgarian leaned through it and told Sazanka what
Downer needed. The Japanese pilot slowed and
climbed. Downer watched the police chopper through his
sight. The ascent brought them level with the other
helicopter, and the decrease in speed narrowed the
distance between them. The platform was jiggling up and down from
the force of the rotor while the wind caused it to bump
toward the stern. Aiming was difficult.
  Downer sighted the cockpit of the police chopper.
The optics of the grenade launcher did not magnify
the target. Even so, Downer could see that
someone was standing in the cockpit, leaning between the pilot
and copilot and watching them with binoculars. Now that the
two
  helicopters were level, they would finally be able
to see Downer. There was no time to wait for the police
to get closer. The Australian hunkered down on
the platform, curling as tight as possible against the far
side brace for the recoil. Again he sighted the
cockpit of the pursuing aircraft. The shot
didn't have to be pretty; all he had to do was hit
the enemy vehicle. He pulled hard on the heavy
trigger.
  The grenade left the barrel with a rush of air and a
very loud pop. The launch knocked the platform
backward with a sharp jolt, causing Downer to slide
against the mesh siding. He lost the grenade launcher,
which hit the platform with a ringing thunk. But he kept his
eye on the projectile as it cut a thin, offwhite
contrail through the sky.
  The grenade's flight took three seconds.
It struck the cockpit on the port side and
exploded. There was a bright cotton-ball burst of
red and black smoke, with slivers of fire close
to the core. The smoke and glass that blew upward were
dispersed by the main rotor. A moment later,
the helicopter listed to the starboard side and began
to roll over. There was no secondary explosion.
Then, with the crew dead or disabled, the helicopter
simply nosed down and plunged earthward. It
reminded Downer of a shuttlecock with busted feathers
on one side. The police helicopter spun in a
lopsided way as the tail rotor pulled it first
to one side and then another. It was almost as though the
small propeller were single-handedly trying to keep the
crippled chopper aloft. Meanwhile, Georgiev
had reactivated the pulley that raised the cable
holding the platform. Downer finished
  his journey to the open door. He handed the
Bulgarian the grenade launcher, and then Barone
extended a hand to help him back in. Vandal
helped Georgiev pull the platform inside.
Barone continued to hold Downer's hand. The
Uruguyan's expression was taut with anger.
  "I should have pushed you the other way," Barone said.
Downer glared at him. "What you should have done was
say, "Nice shooting, mate." "You
  broke my concentration down there with all your
talk!" Barone cried. He angrily released
Downer's hand. "Didn't take much, did it?"
Downer said. "I know soldiers who can do your
job in their sleep."
  "Then I suggest you work with them next time,"
Barone snarled. "Enough!" Vandal said over his
shoulder.
  Georgiev and Vandal had been watching as the
police helicopter crashed into a block near the
river. There was a small, white explosion. A
muffled boom reached them a moment later. They began
to shut the door.
  "An arrogant ass," Barone muttered. "That's
what I'm working with. An arrogant, Australian
ass!" Before Georgiev and Vandal could finish
closing the hatch, Reynold Downer suddenly
slapped both hands on the front of Barone's
uniform. The Australian grabbed it so tightly that
his fingertips sank into the meat of the smaller man's
chest. Barone screamed in pain as Downer swung him
around and pushed him toward the still-open hatchway. He
leaned Barone back so that his head and shoulders were
hanging over Paris. "Jesus!" Barone yelled.
  "I've had enough of this!" the Australian shouted.
"You've been riding me for weeks!"
  "Stop it!" Vandal shouted. He ran over to the
men. "I spoke my mind is all I did!"
Downer said. "I also did my job and took
down the bloody damn chopper, so climb off!"
  Vandal forced himself between them. "Get away!" he
said as he grabbed Barone's arm with his left hand.
At the same time, he used his right shoulder to nudge
Downer back.
  Downer pulled Barone inside, then stepped away
willingly. He turned and faced the bags stacked
against the other side of the cabin. Behind him,
Georgiev quickly shut the door. "Everyone calm
down," Vandal said quietly. "We're all
excitable right now, but we've accomplished what we
set out to do. All that should matter now is finishing the
job."
  "Finishing it without any more complaints," Barone
said. He was shaking with anger and fear.
  "Of course," Vandal said calmly.
  "It was a bloody observation," Downer said through his
teeth. "That's all it was!"
  "All right!" Vandal said. He remained between the
men and glanced back at Downer. "I would like
to remind you, both of you, that in order to complete this part
of the mission and move on to the next, we need every
member of the team. Now, we all did our jobs
here, and did them well. If we take a little
extra care in the future, we'll be
fine." He looked back at Barone. "Even if
anyone heard his voice, I'm confident that we'll
be out of the country before anyone can figure out which
Australian that accent belongs to."
  "Which Australian with commando experience to pull off
a job like this," Barone shot back.
  "They still won't find us in time," Vandal said.
"If they heard him, the police will still have to go
to Interpol, which will check with authorities in
Canberra. We'll be long gone before they even have a
list of possible suspects." Cautiously, he
moved from between the men. He looked at his watch.
"We'll be landing in ten minutes, and we'll be
airborne again before nine o'clock." He forced a
smile. "Nothing can stop us now."
  Barone was glaring at Downer. He looked away
and angrily smoothed the front of his uniform.
  Downer took a long breath and then smiled back
at Vandal. The Frenchman was right. They did do
well. They'd gotten the money they needed to pay for
bribes, for the plane, and for the documents they'd need
for the next part of the operation. The part that was going to make
them wealthy.
  The Frenchman relaxed and walked toward the
cockpit. Barone turned his back toward
Downer and kept it there. Downer sat down on a
stack of money bags and ignored Baroneonce more.
When the Australian reached the combustion stage, he
burned hot but fast. He was cool again, no longer
angry at Barone or at himself for having screwed
up.
  Georgiev locked the door and walked over to the
cockpit. He didn't make eye contact with
Downer as he walked past. It wasn't an
intentional snub, just another habit that came from
years spent working for the CIA. Always try to remain
anonymous. Vandal was once again in the copilot's
seat, monitoring the French police radio
communications. Georgiev
  stood behind him in the open cockpit door. Barone
was looking out the window in the sliding cabin door.
Downer shut his eyes. He enjoyed the soothing
vibration of the floor. He enjoyed the soft bed of
money beneath his head. Even the slamming loud noise
of the rotor didn't bother him.
  He allowed himself the pleasure of forgetting the
details they'd had to remember for this morning. The
armored car's route, the timing, alternate plans
in case the police got through, an escape by the
river in the event the chopper didn't make
it. A deep feeling of satisfaction came over
him, and he savored it the way he had never enjoyed
anything in his life.
  FOUR
  Chevy Chase, Maryland Friday, 9:12
A.m.
  Under a bright sky, Paul Hood, his wife
Sharon, their just-turned- fourteen-year-old daughter
Harleigh, and their eleven-year-old son Alexander
eased into their new van and set out for New York.
The kids were hooked to their respective
Discmans. Harleigh was listening to violin concerti
to get herself in the mood for the concert; every now and then, she
would sigh or mutter a mild oath, awed by the
composition or discouraged by the brilliance of the
performance. She was like her mother in that respect. Neither
woman was ever satisfied with what she'd
accomplished, Harleigh on the violin, Sharon with
her passion for healthy cooking. For years, Sharon
had used her charm and sincerity to lure people away from
bacon and doughnuts on a half-hour weekly cable
TV show, The McDonnell Healthy Food
Report. She had left the show several months before
to devote more time to putting together a healthy-eating
cookbook, which was nearly finished. She had
also wanted to spend more time at home. The kids were
getting older faster, and she felt they should all
spend more time doing things as a family, from having
dinner weeknights to taking vacations whenever they could.
Dinners that Hood had
  missed more often than not and vacations that he'd had
to cancel. Alexander was much more like his father. He liked
personal challenges. He enjoyed computer
games-the more complicated, the better. He liked
crossword puzzles and jigsaw puzzles. As they
drove, he listened to some flavor-of-the-month singer
and worked on an acrostic puzzle. Beneath the puzzle
book, on his lap, was a short stack of comic
books. To Alexander, there was no outside world right
now. There was just what was in front of him. Paul
couldn't help but feel proud of the kid. Alexander
knew his own mind.
  Sharon Hood was sitting quietly by her
husband's side. She had left him a week before,
taken the children, and gone to stay with her parents in Old
Saybrook, Connecticut. She'd returned for the
same reason that Hood had resigned from
Op-Center: to fight for their family. Hood had
no idea what he'd do next in his career, and he
wouldn't be putting out feelers until they
returned to Washington on Wednesday. He'd
cashed in some stock he'd bought during his years as a
broker, enough to run the household for two years.
Income wasn't as important as satisfaction and
banker's hours. But Sharon was right. The wholeness of
what he felt in the car, imperfections and all, was
something very special. One of those imperfections-the
largest one-was still between Hood and his wife. Though
Sharon took his hand and held it as they started the
trip, he had the feeling that he was on probation.
There was nothing he could pinpoint, nothing that seemed
different from any other drive they'd taken. But there
was something that stood between them. A resentment?
Disappointment?
  Whatever, it was the reverse of the sexual tension he
felt with Ann Faros.
  Paul and Sharon talked a little at first about what
they were going to do in the city. Tonight was an official
dinner with the families of the other violinists. Maybe
a walk through Times Square if they got done early
enough. On Saturday morning, they'd drop
Harleigh off at the United Nations and then do what
Alexander had requested: visit the Statue of
Liberty. The boy wanted to see up close how it
was "erected," as he put it. At six
they'd head for the soiree, leaving the young man in the
Sheraton with its built-in video game system.
  Paul and Sharon wouldn't be permitted to attend the
United Nations reception, which was being held in the
lobby of the General Assembly Hall building.
Instead, they'd be watching the concert on
closed-circuit televisions in the second-floor
press room along with the other parents. On
Sunday, they'd take in an afternoon performance of the
Metropolitan Opera orchestra doing Vivaldi
Sharon's favorite--at Carnegie Hall, after
which, at Ann Farris's recommendation, they'd head
up to Serendipity III for frozen hot
chocolates. Sharon wasn't happy about that, but
Hood pointed out that this was a vacation, and the kids were
looking forward to the dessert stop. Hood was sure
she was also unhappy about the fact that Ann had
suggested it. On Monday, they'd drive out to Old
Saybrook to visit Sharon's parents-this time as a
family. That had been Hood's idea. He liked
Sharon's folks, and they liked him. He wanted
to regain that stability for the family. Because it was a
Friday, traffic thickened going into and out of
Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Newark. They
finally reached New York at five-thirty
and checked into
  the hotel on Seventh Avenue and Fifty-first
Street. The tall, busy hotel was a Sheraton
now; Hood remembered when it was the Americana
years before. They arrived just in time to join the other
families for dinner up the street at the Carnegie
Deli. The meal was rich with pastrami, roast
beef, and hot dogs. The only couple the Hoods
knew was the Mathises, whose daughter Barbara was one
of Harleigh's closest friends. Barbara's parents
both worked for the Washington police 4partment. There
were also a few mothers-two of them attractive, single
parents-who recognized Paul from his tenure as
mayor of Los Angeles. They treated him with
celebrity-worthy smiles and asked what it was like
to "run" Hollywood. He said he wouldn't know.
They'd have to ask the Screen Actors Guild and the
other motion picture unions.
  All of it, the food and the attention, made Sharon
uneasy. Or at least it brought out whatever discomfort
she had been feeling since they set out. Hood
decided to try to talk to her about it when the kids went
to bed.
  There was one thing Sharon had been right about, though.
Paul had been away from home too much.
As he watched Harleigh interact with the other
teenagers and their parents, he realized he was
observing a young woman and not a girl. He didn't
know when the change had happened, but it had. And he was
proud of Harleigh in a different way than he was of
Alexander. She had her mother's charm along with the
acquired poise of a musician.
  Alexander was focused on his plate of well-done
potato pancakes. He would press the back of his
fork on them, wait for the grease to rise from the top, and
then watch to see how long it took for the grease
to soak
  back. His mother told him to stop playing with his
food. Hood had reserved a suite on an upper
floor. After Alexander had a look around the city with
his binoculars-marveling at what he could see on the
street and in other windows-the kids went to sleep on
cots in the living room, giving him and Sharon some
privacy, Privacy and a hotel room. There was a
time when that would automatically have meant lovemaking,
not talk or uncomfortable silence. Hood found it
disturbing how much time and passion over the last few
years went to other things, like guilt or holding their
individual ground instead of holding each other. How
had things gotten to that point? And how did a
couple get them back to where they should be? Hood had
an idea, though it would be tough convincing his wife.
  Sharon slid into bed. She curled on her side,
facing him. "I'm a mess," she said.
  "I know." He touched her cheek and smiled
lightly. "But we'll get through this."
  "Not when everything is pissing me off," she said.
"Apart from the food, what else bothered you?" Hood
asked. "I was angry at the parents we were with, at
the table manners of their kids, at the way the cars
raced through red lights or stopped in the
crosswalks. Everything got to me. Everything."
  "We've all had days like that," he said.
  "Paul, I can't remember when I wasn't like
that," Sharon said. "It's just been building and
building, and I don't want to spoil things for
Harleigh or Alexander this week."
  "You've been through some rough times," Hood
  said. "We both have. But the kids aren't stupid.
They know what's been happening with us. What I
wanted, what I hoped for, was that we not let anything
get to us while we're here."
  Sharon shook her head sadly. "How?"
  "We're not in a rush," Hood said. "The only
thing we have to do over the next few days is
to build some good memories for ourselves and the kids.
Start to pull ourselves out of this funk. Can we focus
on that?"
  Sharon placed her hand on his. There was a hint
of garlic from something she'd cooked the night before. That
didn't do a hell of a lot for passion either, Hood
had to admit. The routine of life. The smells that
became more familiar than that unforgettable first scent
of a woman's hair. The chores that turned the tip
of your angel's wing back into a hand.
  "I want things to change," Sharon said. "I
felt something in the van driving up"
  "I know," Hood said. "I felt it, too. It
was nice." Sharon looked at him. Her eyes were
moist. "No, Paul," she said. "What I felt
was scary."
  "Scary?" Hood said. "What do you mean?"
  "The whole ride up, I kept remembering the
drives we used to take when the kids were small.
Out to Palm Springs or Big Bear Lake or
up the coast. We were so different then."
  "We were younger," Hood said. "It was more than that."
  "We were focused," Hood said. "The kids
needed us more than they do now. It's like monkey bars.
You've got to stand close together when their reach
is small. Otherwise they fall."
  "I know," Sharon said. Tears began trickling
from
  her eyes. "But I wanted to feel that togetherness
today, and I didn't. I want those good times again,
those old feelings." "We can have them now," Hood
promised.
  "But there's all this crap inside," Sharon said.
"All this bitterness, disappointment, resentment. I
want to go back and do things over so we can grow together,
not apart."
  Hood looked at his wife. Sharon had a
habit of looking away whenever she was confused and of
looking directly at him when she was not. She was
looking straight into his eyes. "We can't do that,"
Hood remarked. "But we can work on fixing things,
one at a time."
  He pulled her closer. Sharon moved across the
bed, but there was no warmth in their proximity. He
didn't understand this at all. He was giving her what
she had wanted, what she said she needed, and she was still
withdrawing. Maybe she was just venting. She hadn't
really had a chance to do that. He held her silently
for several minutes.
  "Hon," Hood went on, "I know you
haven't wanted to do this before, but it might be a good
idea if the two of us talked to someone. Liz
Gordon said she'd give me some names, if you're
interested." Sharon didn't say anything. Hood
held her closer and heard that her breathing had slowed.
He craned back slightly. She was staring at
nothing and fighting back tears.
  "At least the children turned out all right," she said.
"At least we did that right."
  "Sharon, we did more than just that right," he said.
"We've made a life together. Not perfect, but a
better
  life than a lot of people. We've done okay.
And we'll do better." He pulled her close again
as she began to sob openly. Her arms went around his
shoulders.
  "That isn't what a girl dreams of when she
thinks of the future, you know?" she wept.
  "I know." He cradled her tighter. "We'll
make it better, I promise."
  He didn't say anything else. He just held
on as passion sent Sharon's regret into a power
dive. She would bottom out and then, in the morning,
they'd start the long climb back. It would be
difficult to take things slow and easy, as
he'd said. But he owed that to Sharon. Not because he'd
let his career dictate his hours but because he'd given
his passion to Nancy Bosworth and Ann Farris.
Not his body, but his thoughts, his attention, even his
dreams. That energy, that focus, should have been saved for
his wife and his family.
  Sharon fell asleep snuggled in his arms. This
wasn't how he wanted to feel closeness, but at
least it was something. When he was sure he wouldn't
wake her, he released her gently, reached over to the
night table, and snapped off the light. Then he lay
back, staring at the ceiling and feeling disgusted with himself
in the hard, unforgiving way you can only at night.
And he tried to figure out if there was a way he could
make this week-end a little more special for the three people
he'd somehow let down.
  FIVE
  New York, New York Saturday, 4:57
A.m.
  Standing outside the rundown, two story brick
building near the Hudson River made
Lieutenant Bernardo Barone think of his native
Montevideo.
  It wasn't just the dilapidated condition of the body
shop that reminded him of the slums where he
grew up. For one thing, there were the brisk winds
blowing from the south. The smell of the Atlantic
Ocean was mixed with the smell of gasoline from cars
racing along the nearby West Side Highway. In
Montevideo, fuel and the sea wind were ever
present. Overhead, a steady flow of air traffic
followed the river to the north before turning east to La
Guardia Airport. Planes were always
criss-crossing the skies over his home.
  Yet it was more than that which reminded him of home.
Bernardo Barone had found those in every port city
he'd visited the world over. What made it different
was being out here by himself. Loneliness was something he felt
in Montevideo whenever he returned.
  No, he thought suddenly. Don't get into that.
He didn't want to be angry and depressed. Not
now. He had to focus. He backed up against the
door. It felt cool on his sweaty back. The
door was wood covered with a sheet
  of steel on both sides. There were three key
locks on the outside and two heavy bolts on the
inside. The sunfaded sign above the door read
Viks" Body Shop. The owner was a member of the
Russian Mafia named Leonid Ustinoviks.
The small, bony, chain-smoker was a former
Soviet military leader and an acquaintance of
Georgiev'"s through the Khmer Rouge. Barone
had been informed by Ustinoviks that there wasn't a
body shop in New York that was exclusively a
body shop. By night, when it was quiet and no one
could approach the building unseen or unheard, either
they were chop shops selling stolen cars, drug or
weapon dealerships, or slavery operations. The
Russians and Thais were big in this arena, sending
kidnapped American children out of the country or bringing
young women into the United States. In most cases,
the captives were put to work as prostitutes. Some
of the girls who had worked for Georgiev in
Cambodia had ended up here, moving through
Ustinoviks's hands. The size of the crates used
to ship "spare parts" and the international nature of the
trade made these businesses a perfect front.
Leonid Ustinoviks's business was arms. He had
them brought in from former republics of the Soviet
Union. The weapons came into Canada or
Cuba, usually by freighter. From them, they were
slipped into New England and the Middle Atlantic
States, or into Florida and the other Gulf Coast
states. Typically, they were moved piecemeal from
small-town storehouses to places like this
body shop. That was to prevent losing everything if the
FBI and the NYPD'S Intelligence Division
caught them in transit. Both groups quietly
monitored the communications and activities of
persons from nations known to sponsor illicit trade
or terrorism: Russia,
  Libya, North Korea, and many others. The
police regularly changed signs along the
riverfront and in the warehouse districts, altering
parking restrictions and hours when turns could be made
on certain well-traveled corners. This gave them
an excuse to stop vehicles and clandestinely
photograph the drivers. Ustinoviks had told
him to keep an eye out for anyone who turned off the
highway or any of the side streets. If anyone
came here, or even slowed down while driving by,
he was to rap three times on the body shop's door.
Whenever a deal was taking place, operations like this always
had someone who would come out and demand that a search
warrant be read to him-a right, by New York City
law-while anyone inside escaped by the roof onto
an adjoining building. Not that Ustinoviks was
expecting trouble. He said there had been a flurry
of raids against Russian gangsters two months
ago. The city didn't like to give the
appearance of targeting an individual ethnic
group.
  "It's the Vietnamese's turn," he quipped
when they arrived here from the hotel.
  Barone thought he heard a sound off to the side of the
building. Reaching into his windbreaker, he withdrew his
automatic. He walked cautiously to the darkened
alley to the north. There was a club behind a high
chain-link fence. The Dungeon. The doors,
windows, and brick walls were all painted black.
He couldn't imagine what went on there. It was
odd. What they had to do in secret in Cambodia,
sell girls for money, was probably done openly
in places like this.
  When a nation stands for freedom, he thought, it has
to tolerate even the extremes.
  The club was closed for the night. A dog was moving
  behind the fence. That must have been what he heard.
Barone slid the gun back into its shoulder holster and
returned to his post. Barone pulled a hand-rolled
cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it. He
thought back over the past few days. Things were going
well, and they'd continue to go well. He believed
that. He and his four teammates had reached Spain
without any problem. They split up in the
event that any of them had been identified, and over the
next two days, flew to the United States from
Madrid. They met at a Times Square hotel.
Georgiev had been the first to arrive. He had already
made the connections necessary to obtain the weapons they
needed. The negotiations were going on inside while
Barone stood guard.
  Barone drew on the cigarette. He tried
to concentrate on the plan for tomorrow. He wondered about
Georgiev's other ally, the one known only to the
Bulgarian. All Georgiev would tell them was that
it was an American whom he had known for over ten
years. That would be about the time they were in Cambodia
together. Barone wondered who he could have met there and
what role they could possibly be playing in tomorrow's
action. But it was no use. Barone's mind always went
where it wanted to go, and right now, it didn't want
to think about Georgiev or the operation. It wanted
to go back. It wanted to go home. To the loneliness,
he thought bitterly. A place familiar to him
strangely comfortable.
  It wasn't always that way. Though his family had
no money, there was a time when Montevideo seemed
like paradise. Located on the Atlantic Ocean,
it's the capital of Uruguay and home
to some of the most spacious and
  beautiful beaches in the world. Growing up there in the
early 1960's, Bernardo Barone couldn't have been
happier. When he wasn't in school or doing his
chores, he used to go to the beach with his
twelve-years-older brother Eduardo. The two young
men would stay there long into the night, swimming endlessly
or building forts in the sand. They would light
campfires when the sun set and often went to sleep
beside their forts.
  "We'll rest in the stables with the magnificent
horses," Eduardo would joke. "Can you smell
them?" Bernardo could not. He could only smell the
sea and the fumes from the cars and boats. But he
believed that Eduardo could smell them. The young boy
wanted to be able to do that when he grew up. He
wanted to be like Eduardo. When Bernardo and his mother
went to church every weekend, that was what he prayer for.
To grow up just like his brother. Those were Bernardo's
happiest memories. Eduardo was so patient with
him, so friendly with everyone who came by to watch them
build the tall, creaellated walls and moats.
Girls loved the handsome young man. And they loved the
handsome young man's cute little brother, who loved them
right back.
  Bernardo's beloved mother was a baker's assistant
and their father Martin was a prizefighter. Martin's
dream was to save enough to open a gym so his wife could
quit her job and live like a lady. From the time
Eduardo was fifteen, he spent many days and nights
traveling with the elder Barone, working as his corner
man. Often they'd be gone for weeks at a time,
participating in the Rio de la Plata circuit.
Groups of fighters traveled together by bus from
Mercedes to Paysandu to Salto, boxing one another
or ambitious locals. Pay was a share
  of the gate, less fees for the doctor who
traveled with the fighters. Eduardo learned basic
medical skills so they could save the price of the
doctor.
  It was a difficult life, and it put a terrible
strain on the boys" mother. She worked long hours
over a hellishly hot brick oven, and one
morning, while her husband and eldest son were away,
she died in a fire at the bakery. Because the
family's credit was bad, the woman's body was
brought to the Barone apartment, and Bernardo had to sit with
it until his father could be contacted and funeral
arrangements could be made and paid for.
  Bernardo was nine.
  During his travels with their father, Eduardo had
learned other things, as well. Quite by chance, in a
small tavern in San Javier, he discovered the
Marxist Movimiento de Liberacion
Nacional Tupamaros. The guerrilla group had
been founded in 1962 by Raul Antonaccio
Sendic, leader of the sugarcane workers of northern
Uruguay. The government had been unable to control
inflation, which went as high as 35 percent, and
laborers were particularly hard hit. In the
aggressive Sendic movement, Eduardo saw a
means by which he could help others like his father who had lost
the love of their life and the will to dream. In Eduardo,
the group saw someone who could fight and administer
medical treatment. It was a good fit. With his father's
blessings, Eduardo joined the MLN-T. In 1972,
the despotic Juan Maria Bordaberry Arocena
was elected president. Bordaberry had the backing
of the well-trained, well-armed military. And one
of the first orders of business was to crush the opposition,
including the MLN-T, which Eduardo had recently
joined. There
  was a bloody shoot-out in April; by year's end,
members were in jail or in exile. Eduardo had
ended up in prison, where he died of
"unknown" causes. Bernardo's father died less
than two years later. He had taken a severe
beating in the ring and never recovered. Bernardo always
felt that his father wanted to die. He had never been the
same after the loss of those who had been so precious
to him.
  The death of his family turned Bernardo into p
angry young firebrand who hated the government of
President Bordaberry. Ironically, the
military also became disenchanted with the new president
and staged its own coup in February 1973. They
established the Consejo de Seguridad
Nacional. Bernardo enlisted in 1979, hoping
to become part of a new order in Uruguay. But after
twelve years of being unable to deal with economic
hardship, the military simply returned rule to the
people and literally faded from the political scene. The
economic situation hadn't changed markedly.
  Once again, Bernardo felt betrayed by a
cause. The young man remained in the military. As
a tribute to his father, he had become skilled in
all forms of hand-to-hand combat; he was suited for
nothing else. But he never stopped hoping that he would
find a way to re-kindle the spirit of the MLN-T.
To work for the people of Uruguay, not the leaders.
Serving with the United Nations in Cambodia, Barone
found a way to do just that. To raise money and get
attention from the world press, all at the same time.
Barone finished his cigarette. He crushed it on the
sidewalk and stood looking at the traffic on the
West Side Highway. That was one difference between
Montevideo and New York City. In
Montevideo, except for
  the tourist hotels and the bars, everything shut down
at sunset. Here, the roads were busy even at this
hour. It had to be impossible for authorities
to monitor all of it, to keep track of who was coming
and going, of what was in the trucks and vans. Lucky
for us, he thought.
  It was also impossible for the police to watch every
plane that came into the small airstrips that
surrounded the city. Airports and even open
fields in upstate New York, Connecticut,
New Jersey, and Pennsylvania were perfect for
small planes to slip in and out unnoticed.
Waterways in those states were also ideal spots. A
deserted bay or riverbank in the small hours of the
morning. Crates quickly and quietly loaded from
boat or seaplane to truck. Easy entry, and so
close to New York. That, too, was
lucky for the team. An hour passed, then another.
Barone had known this was going to take a while, since
Downer needed time to examine each of the weapons.
Though arms dealers could usually get a client what
he wanted, that didn't necessarily mean the
weapons would be in perfect working order. Like
refugees, a hot weapon never got to travel first
class. The wait didn't bother the Uruguayan.
What mattered was that the weapon work when he aimed and
fired. Something to the left caught his eye. He
turned. Near the mouth of the river, the Statue of
Liberty was just catching the first rays of dawn.
Barone hadn't realized the monument was out there, and
seeing it at first surprised and then angered him. He
had no gripe with the United States and her cherished
notions of freedom and equality. But there, in the
harbor, was a giant idol celebrating a spiritual
concept. It seemed sacrilegious. The
  way he was raised, these things were very personal.
They were celebrated in the heart, not in the harbor.
Finally, shortly before seven A.m., the door behind
him opened. Downer leaned out. "You're to come around
back," the Australian said, then shut the door.
  Barone didn't feel like making fun of Downer's
accent. Since the incident in the helicopter
over Paris, he hadn't felt like talking to the
unrepentent mercenary Downer at all. Barone
turned to his left and walked around the side of the
building. His new boots had deeply treaded
rubber soles that squeaked on the asphalt as he
made his way along the driveway. To his right was a
tire shop surrounded by a high chain-link fence. A
guard dog slept in the shadows. Earlier in the
evening, the soldier had tossed him some of his
hamburger-American meat tasted funny to the
Uruguayan-and the animal became his best friend.
Barone walked past a pair of green trash bins
to where the rented van was parked. There were seventeen
weapons-three guns for each man and a pair of
rocket launchers-plus ammunition and
bulletproof vests. Each weapon was swaddled in
bubble wrap Sazanka and Vandal were already carrying
them from the body shop as Barone hopped into the open
side door of the van. As the men handed the weapons
up, Barone carefully placed them in six plain
cardboard boxes. Downer watched from the back door
of the body shop, making sure none of the weapons were
dropped. It was the first time Barone had ever seen the
Australian so quiet and professional. As he
worked, the sense of loneliness left the
Uruguayan. Not because he was with his teammates but because
he was moving again. They were close to their goal now.
Barone had always believed in the plan, but now he
believed they might actually pull this off. Just a
few small steps remained. Months before,
Georgiev had obtained a counterfeit New
York State driver's license. Since rental
car companies routinely checked police records
before letting cars off the lot, the Bulgarian had
to pay extra to have it entered into the motor vehicle
department computer system. He even gave himself a
traffic ticket a year before, not just to show residency
but because people who drove in big cities usually got
one. A clean record might arouse suspicions.
All the team had to do now was make certain they
didn't run any lights or have an accident before
reaching the hotel. They'd drawn straws earlier, and
Vandal would be sleeping in the van while the others
went up to the room to rest. Georgiev didn't
want to risk the van being stolen by Ustinoviks.
  Then, at seven P.m., they'd leave the hotel
garage and head to Forty-second Street. They'd
drive east, across town, and at First Avenue they'd
turn north. Once again, Georgiev would drive
carefully.
  Then, suddenly, he would speed up. He would
approach the target at between sixty and seventy
miles an hour, and in less than ten minutes, the
target would fall.
  The United Nations would be theirs. And then the third
and final part of their plan could commence.
  SIX
  New York, New York Saturday, 6:45
P.m.
  The League of Nations was formed after World War I,
conceived, in the words of its covenant, "to promote
international cooperation and to achieve international peace
and security." Though President Woodrow
Wilson was a fierce advocate of the League, the
American Senate wanted no part of it. Their key
objections involved the potential use of United
States troops to help preserve the territorial
integrity or political independence of other
countries, and acknowledging the jurisdiction of the
League in matters pertaining to North, Central,
or South America. President Wilson
collapsed and suffered a stroke as a result of his
ceaseless efforts to promote American acceptance
of the League and its mandate.
  Housed in a spectacular,
six-million-dollar palace built for it in
Geneva, the League and its noble intentions proved
ineffectual. They were unable to prevent the
Japanese occupation of Manchuria in 1931,
Italy's taking of Ethiopia in 1935, and the
German conquest of Austria in 1938. It was also
notably ineffective in preventing World War
II. It's a matter of ongoing debate whether
an American presence in the League would have changed
the unfolding of any of these events.
  The United Nations was formed in 1945 to try
to ac complish what the League of Nations had failed
to do. This time, however, things were different. The United
States had a reason to be actively involved with the
sovereignty of other nations. Communism was perceived
as the greatest threat to the American way of life, and
each nation that fell gave the enemy another
foothold. The United Nations chose the United
States as the home of its international headquarters.
Not only had the United States emerged from World
War II as the world's dominant military and
economic force, but it had agreed to provide
one-quarter of the United Nations's annual operating
budget. Moreover, because of the despotic tradition
of many European nations, the Old World was
deemed unacceptable as a site for a world body
promoting a new era of peace and understanding. New
York was selected because it had become the hub of
international communications and finance and was also the
traditional fink between the Old World and the New.
Two other potential sites in America were
rejected for very different reasons. San
Francisco, which was favored by the Australians and
Asians, was vetoed because the Soviet Union did
not want to make travel more convenient for the hated
Chinese or Japanese. And rustic Fairfield
County, on the Long Island Sound in
Connecticut, was disqualified when New Englanders,
opposed to what they perceived as the onset of "world
government," stoned United Nations prospectors
who were looking at possible locations. A large
parcel of land for the new United Nations
headquarters-the site of an abattoir on the East
River-was bought with $8.5 million donated by the
Rockefellers. The family was granted a tax
exemption for their gift. The Rockefellers also
benefited from the develop ment of land they still owned
all around the new complex. Offices, housing,
restaurants, shopping, and entertainment came to the
once-dilapidated neighborhood in order
to service the thousands of delegates and workers who
staffed the United Nations. The limited acreage
made available for the project caused two things
to happen. First, the headquarters had to be designed
in skyscraper form. The skyscraper was a
uniquely American invention created to maximize
space on the small island of Manhattan, and the
look of the complex would make the United Nations even
more American. However, this limitation suited the
founders of the United Nations. It gave them an
excuse to decentralize key functions of the
organization, from the World Court to the International
Labor Organization. These were located in other world
capitals. The UN'S principal ancillary
headquarters was established at the old League of
Nations palace in Geneva. This was a pointed
reminder to the United States that a world peace group
had been tried once before and failed because not every nation was
committed.
  Paul Hood remembered some of that from junior
high school. He also remembered something else from
junior high school. Something that had permanently
shaped his view of the building itself. He had come
to New York from Los Angeles for a week during
the Christmas vacation with other honor
students. As they drove to the city from Kennedy
International Airport, he looked across the East
River and saw the United Nations at dusk. All
the other skyscrapers he saw were facing north and
south: the Empire State Building, the Chrysler
Building, the Pan Am Building. But the
thirty-nine-story glass-and-marble United Nations
Secretariat Building
  was facing east and west. He happened to mention that
to James LaVigne who was in the seat next to him.
The thin, bespectacled, very intense LaVigne
looked up from The Mighty Thor comic book he was
reading. The magazine was hidden inside a copy of
Scientific American.
  "You know what that reminds me of?" LaVigne
said. Hood said he had no idea.
  "It's like the symbol on Batman's chest."
  "What do you mean?" Hood asked. He had never
read a Batman comic book and had only seen the
popular TV show once, just to see what everyone was
talking about.
  "Batman wears a bright gold-and-black bat
symbol on his chest," LaVigne said. "Do you know
why?" Hood said that he did not. "Because Batman
wears a bulletproof vest under his
costume," LaVigne said. "If a criminal
starts shooting at him, that's where Batman wants
him to aim. At his chest."
  LaVigne returned to his comic book. The
twelve-year-old Hood turned back to the
United Nations building. LaVigne often made
bizarre observations, his favorite being that
Superman was a retelling of the New Testament. But
this one made sense. Hood wondered if New
York had built it that way on purpose. If
someone wanted to attack the United Nations from the
river or airport, it was a big, fat target for a
Cuban or Chinese secret agent. Because of that
vivid childhood impression, Paul Hood always
thought of the United Nations as New York's
bull's-eye. And now that he was here, he felt
surprisingly vulnerable. Intellectually, he
knew that
  made no sense. The United Nations was on
international territory: If terrorists wanted
to strike at America, they would attack the
infrastructure-the railroads, bridges, or
tunnels-like the terrorists who blew up the
Queens-Midtown Tunnel and forced Op-Center
to work with its Russian counterpart. Or
monuments like the Statue of Liberty. When he was
on Liberty Island that morning, Hood was
surprised how accessible the island was from the air and
sea, Coming over on the ferry, he was disturbed to see
how easy it would be for a pair of suicide pilots
in planes loaded with explosives to reduce the
statue to slag. There was a radar system located in
the administration complex, but Hood knew that the
NYPD harbor patrol had only-one gunship
stationed on nearby Governor's Island. Two
planes coming from opposite directions, with the statue
itself blocking the gunship's fire, would enable at least
one terrorist to reach the target.
  You stayed at Op-Center too long, he told
himself. Here he was on vacation, running crisis
scenarios.
  He shook his head and looked around. He and
Sharon had arrived early and gone down to the gift
shop to get Alexander a T-shirt. Then they went
up to the vast public lobby of the General
Assembly Building, near the bronze statue of
Zeus, to wait for the UN Youth Arts
representative. The lobby had been closed to the
public since four o'clock so employees could set
up for the annual peace reception. Because it was
a clear, beautiful night, guests would be able to eat
inside and chat outside. They could roam the
northside courtyard, admiring the sculptures and
gardens, or walk along the East River
promenade. At 7:30, the new Indian United
Nations Secretary-General Mala Chatterjee
would go to
  the Security Council chambers with
representatives of member nations of the Security
Council. There, Ms. Chatterjee and the Spanish
ambassador would congratulate the members for the
massive United Nations peace-keeping effort being
mounted to prevent further ethnic unrest in Spain.
Then Harleigh and her fellow violinists would play
"A Song of Peace." The composition had been
written by a Spanish composer to honor those who died
over sixty years before in the Spanish Civil
War. Musicians from Washington had been
selected to perform, which turned out to be fittingeabecause an
American, Op-Center's Martha Mackall, had
been the first victim of the recent unrest. It was a
coincidence that Paul Hood's daughter was among the
eight violinists chosen. The twelve other parents
had all arrived, and Sharon had scooted off
downstairs to find the rest room. The
musicians had come down to say a brief hello a
few minutes before she left. Harleigh had looked
so mature in her white satin gown and pearls. Young
Barbara Mathis, who was standing beside Harleigh, was also
calm and poised, a diva in the making. Hood
knew that Harleigh's appearance was the reason Sharon
excused herself. She didn't like to cry in public.
Harleigh had been studying violin since she was four
and wearing overalls. He was used to seeing her that
way, or in her track and field clothes when she was
earning all her ribbons. To see her walk
upstairs from the dressing room, an accomplished
musician and a woman, was overwhelming. Hood had
asked his daughter if she were nervous. She said no.
The composer had done the hard part. Harleigh was
poised and she was smart, too.
  Now that Hood thought about it, the old bull's-eye
image of the United Nations probably wasn't
what made
  him feel vulnerable. It was now. This moment, this
point in his life.
  Standing in the open four-story-tall lobby, Hood
felt very much alone. He felt detached from so many
things. His kids were growing, he'd ended a career, he
felt estranged from his wife in so many ways,
and Hood would no longer be seeing the people h
less-than do worked with so closely for over two
years. Is that what he was supposed to feel
halfway through his life? Vulnerable and adrift?
He didn't know. Everyone he'd associated with
at Op-Center-Bob Herbert, Mike Rodgers,
Darrell McCaskey, computer genius Matt
Stoll, and even the late Martha Mackall--were
single. Their job was their life. The same was true
of Colonel Brett August, head of the Striker
team. Had being with them made him like this? Or was he
drawn to them because he wanted that life? If the
latter were true, he was going to have a very difficult
time making his new life work. Maybe he should talk
to psychologist Liz Gordon about this while he was
still eligible for office perks. Although she was single,
too, and worked about sixty hours a week. Hood
saw Sharon come up the winding staircase on the other
side of the lobby. She was dressed in a smart
beige pantsuit and she looked terrific. He'd
told her so back at the hotel, and that had put a
little bounce in her step. The bounce was still there. She
smiled at him, and he smiled back as she
approached. Suddenly, he didn't feel quite so
alone.
  A young Japanese woman walked toward them.
She was wearing a navy blue blazer, a laminated
ID badge on her breast pocket, and a big,
welcoming smile. She came from a small lobby
located on the eastern side of the General
Assembly Building. Unlike the main lobby,
  which was located on the far northern end of the
building, the smaller lobby adjoined the main plaza
in front of the towering Secretariat Building. In
addition to the offices of the member nations, the
Secretariat Building housed the halls of the
Security Council, the Economic and Social
Council, and the Trusteeship Council. That was where
they were headed. The three magnificent
auditoriums were situated side by side,
overlooking the East River. The United Nations
Correspondents Club, which was where the parents would
be taken, was located across the hall from the Security
Council.
  The young guide introduced herself as Kako
Nogami. As the visting parents followed her, the young
lady went into an abbreviated version of her
tour-guide speech.
  "How many of you have been to the United Nations before?"
she asked, walking backward.
  Several parents raised their hands. Hood
didn't. He was afraid Kako would ask what he
remembered about it, and he'd have to tell her about
James LaVigne and Batman.
  "To refresh your memories," she went on,
"and for the benefit of our new guests, I'd like to tell
you a little about the area of the United Nations we'll be
visiting."
  The guide explained that the Security Council
is the United Nations's most powerful body,
primarily responsible for maintaining international
peace and security. "Five influential countries
including the United States sit as permanent
members," she said, "along with ten others, elected
for two-year terms. Tonight, your children will be playing for the
ambassadors of these nations along with their
executive staffs. "The Economic and Social
Council, as the name implies, serves as a forum
for the discussion of international economic and social
issues," the young woman went on. "The council
also promotes human rights and basic freedoms.
The Trusteeship Council, which suspended operations
in 1994, helped territories around the world attain
self-government or independence, either as sovereign
states or as part of other nations."
  For just a moment, Hood thought it would be fascinating
to nun this place. Keeping the peace inside, among
the delegates, had to be as challenging as keeping the
peace outside. As though sensing his thoughts, Sharon
slipped her fingers between his and squeezed tightly.
He let the idea go.
  The group passed a large, ground-floor window
that looked out onto the main plaza. Outside was the
Shinto-style shrine that housed the Japanese Peace
Bell. It was cast from coins and metal donated by people
from sixty nations. Just past the window, the lobby fed
into a wide corridor. Straight ahead were
elevators used by UN delegates and their staff.
To the right was a series of display cases. The guide
led them over. The cases contained relics of the atom
bomb blast that razed Hiroshima: fused cans,
charred school clothes and roof tiles, melted
bottles, and a pocked stone statue of Saint
Agnes. The Japanese guide described the
destructive force and intensity of the blast.
  The exhibit wasn't moving Hood or
Barbara's father Hal Mathis, whose father had died on
Okinawa. Hood wished that Bob Herbert and
Mike Rodgers were here. Rodgers would have asked the
guide to show them the Pearl Harbor
exhibit next. The one about the attack that happened
when the two nations weren't at war. At twenty-two
or twenty-three years old, Hood wondered if
the young woman would have understood the context of
  the question. Herbert would have raised a stink even before
they got this far. The intelligence chief had lost his
wife and the use of his legs in the terrorist bombing
of the United States embassy in Beirut in
1983. He had gotten on with his life, but he
did not forgive easily. In this case, Hood
wouldn't have blamed him. One of the UN publications
Hood had browsed through at the gift shop described
Pearl Harbor as "the Hirohito attack,"
tacitly absolving the Japanese people of guilt in
the crime. Even the more politically correct
Hood found the revisionist history disturbing. After
finishing at the Hiroshima exhibit, the group went
up two flights of escalators to the upstairs
lobby. To their left were the three auditoriums with the
Security Council chambers located on the far
end. The parents were led to the old press bull pen
across the hall. There was a guard outside, a member
of the United Nations Security Forces. The
African-American man was dressed in a powder
blue short-sleeve shirt, blue gray
trousers with a black stripe down each leg, and a
navy blue cap. His name tag read Dillon.
When they arrived, Mr. Dillon unlocked the
bull pen door and let them in.
  Today, reporters generally work in the high-tech
television press rooms situated in long,
glass booths on either side of the Security
Council auditorium. These booths are accessible
by a common corridor between the Security Council
and the Economic and Social Council. But in the
1940's, this spacious, windowless L-shaped room
was the heart of the United Nations's media center. The
first part of the room was lined with old desks,
telephones, a few banged-up computer terminals,
and hand-me-down fax machines. In the larger second
half of the room-the base of the L-were vinyl
couches,
  a rest room, a supply closet, and four
TV monitors mounted on the wall. Ordinarily,
the monitors displayed whatever discussion was going on
in the Security Council or Economic and
Social Council. By putting on headsets and
switching channels, observers could listen in whatever
language they wished. Tonight they'd be watching Ms.
Chatterjee's speech followed by the
recital. A pair of card tables at the end of the
room held sandwiches and a coffeemaker. There were
soft drinks in a small refrigerator. After
thanking the parents for their cooperation, Kako very
politely reminded them what they'd been told by letter
and by the United Nations representative who had
met them at the hotel the night before. For security
reasons, they must remain in this room for the duration of the
event. She said she would be returning with their children at
eight-thirty. Hood wondered if the guard had
been posted to keep tourists out of the press room or
to keep them in. Hood and Sharon walked over to the
sandwich table. s Ohie of the men pointed to the
plastic plates and utensils. "See what
happens when the U.s. doesn't pay its dues?"
he cracked. The veteran Washington police
officer was referring to the nation's billion-dollar
debt, a result of the Senate's unhappiness with
what it characterized as chronic waste, fraud, and
financial abuses at the United Nations. Key
among these charges was that money allocated for UN
peacekeeping forces was being used to bolster the military
resources of participating nations. Hood smiled
politely. He didn't want to think about big
budgets and big government and greenback
diplomacy. He and his wife had had a good day
today. After
  their tense first night in New York, Sharon
tried to relax. She savored the pleasant fall
sunshine at Liberty Island and didn't let the
crowds get to her. She enjoyed Alexander's
excitement at learning all the technical facts
about the statue and at being left alone with his video
games and less-than-nutritious takeout from a
salad bar on Seventh Avenue. Hood wasn't
going to let imprisonment or America-bashing or
cheap utensils ruin that. Harleigh may have been the
catalyst for all these good feelings, but neither their
daughter nor Alexander was the glue. There's something
here, Hood told himself as they filled their plates
and then sat on one of the old vinyl couches to await
their daughter's New York City debut. He
wanted to hold onto that feeling in the same way that
he had held Sharon's hand. Tightly.
  New York, New York Saturday, 7:27
P dism.
  Traffic in Times Square is extremely
dense after seven Pm. on Saturday night as
theatergoers arrive from out of town. Limousines clog
the side streets, garages have cars lined
up waiting to get in, and cabs and buses inch through the
center of the theater district.
  Georgiev had allowed for the delay when he
planned this part of the operation. When he finally turned
east on Forty-second Street and rolled toward
Bryant Park, he was relaxed and confident. So were
the other members of the team. But then, if he hadn't
served with them, seen that they were cool under pressure,
he never would have recruited them for this mission.
  Apart from Reynold Downer, the
forty-eight-year-old former colonel of the
Bulgarian People's Army was the only truly
mercenary man on the team. Barone wanted money
to help his people back home. Sazanka and Vandal had
issues of honor dating back to World War II.
Issues that money would clear away. Georgiev
had a different problem. He'd spent nearly ten
years as part of the CIA'-FINANCED underground in
Bulgaria. He'd fought the Communists for so long that
he couldn't adapt to an era that had no enemy. He
had no trade apart from soldiering, the army was not
paying its people with regularity, and he was much poorer now
than he'd been taking American dollars and living
under the shadow of the Soviet empire. He wanted
to open a new business: financing
petroleum and natural gas exploitation. He
would do that with his share of the take from today's mission.
  Because of Georgiev's familiarity with CIA
tactics and his fluency in American English, the
others had no trouble with him leading this half of the
operation. Besides, as he'd proven when he organized
the prostitution ring in Cambodia, he was a
natural leader.
  Georgiev drove slowly, carefully. He
watched out for jaywalking pedestrians. He didn't
tailgate. He didn't shout at taxi drivers
who cut him off. He didn't do anything that would
cause him to be stopped by the police. It was
ironic. He was about to commit an act of destruction
and murder that the world would not soon forget. Yet here
he was, the model of tranquil, lawful
motoring. There was a time, growing up, when
Georgiev wanted to be a philosopher. Maybe
when all of this was over, he would finally get to take that
up. Contrasts fascinated him.
  When he had driven this route the day before, he
noticed a traffic camera on a streetlight at
the southwest corner of Forty-second Street and
Fifth Avenue. The camera faced north. There was
another on Forty-second Street and
Third Avenue facing south. Vandal, who was sitting
in the passenger's seat, and Georgiev both
adjusted their sun visors to cover those windows.
They'd be wearing ski masks when they went into the
UN. The NYPD would probably review all the
cameras in the area, and he didn't want anyone
to have a photographic: record of who was in the
van. The traffic cameras would
  tell them nothing. And while police might find
a few tourists who had videotaped the van,
Georgiev had intentionally approached the target from
the setting sun. All any videotape would see was
glare off the windshield. God bless the things he'd
learned from the CIA.
  They passed the New York Public
Library, Grand Central Station, and the Chrysler
Building They reached First Avenue without incident.
Georgiev timed his approach so they'd stop at the
light. He'd made sure he was in the right-hand
lane. When they made the left turn, he would be
on the same side of the street as the United
Nations, on the right. He glanced toward the north.
The target area was just two blocks away. Almost
straight ahead was the Secretariat Building, set
back behind a circular courtyard and a
fountain. A seven-foot-high iron fence fronted
the complex for its four-block length. There were three
guard booths spaced along the gates, behind them.
NYPD officers patrolled the street. Across First
Avenue, on the corner of Forty-fifth Street, was
an NYPD command booth.
  He had reconnoitered all of this the day before. And
he'd studied photographs and videotape he'd
taken months before that. He knew this area
completely, from the location of every streetlight to every
fire hydrant.
  Georgiev waited until the DON'T WALK
sign began flashing to his left. That meant they had
six seconds until the light changed.
Georgiev's black ski mask was tucked between his
legs. He pulled it out and slipped it on. The
other men did likewise. They were already wearing thin
white gloves so they wouldn't leave fingerprints but
could still handle their weapons. The light turned. So
did Georgiev.
  EIGHT
  New York, New York Saturday, 7:30
P.m.
  Etienne Vandal pulled on his ski mask. Then
he turned to receive his weapons from
Sazanka, who was in the back of the van along with
Barone and Downer. The seats had been removed and
piled in a corner of the hotel garage. The windows
had been painted over. The men were able to prepare in
total secrecy. Barone holstered his own two
automatics and picked up the Uzi. He would also
be wearing the backpack containing tear gas and gas
masks. If it became necessary to fight their way out,
they'd have the gas as well as hostages. It was
difficult to twist very far because of the bulletproof
vest, but Vandal preferred discomfort
to vulnerability. The Japanese officer handed him
two automatics and an Uzi. Downer was kneeling
beside the door on the driver's side of the van. He
placed his own weapons on the floor. A
Swiss-made B-77 missile launcher lay
across his shoulder. He had requested an American
M47 Dragon, but this was the closest Ustinoviks
could come. Downer had examined the short-range,
lightweight antitank missile and had assured the
team it would do the job. Vandal and the others hoped so.
Without it, they'd be dead in
  the street. Barone was crouched beside the side door,
ready to pull it open.
  Vandal had already checked his weapons at
the hotel. Now he sat and waited as the van
continued to accelerate. It was here at last. The
countdown they'd been working for, going over again and again for
more than a year. In Vandal's case, it was a moment
he'd been awaiting for even longer than that. He was
calm, even relieved, as the target area came
into view.
  The other men also seemed calm, especially
Georgiev. Yet he always came across as a big,
cold machine. Vandal knew very little about the man, but
what he did know, he didn't like or respect.
Until Bulgaria drafted a new constitution in
1991, it was among the most repressive nations in
the Soviet bloc. Georgiev helped the CIA
recruit informants inside the government. Vandal
would have understood if the man had struggled to overthrow the
regime for principle. But Georgiev had worked
for the CIA simply because they paid well. Though the
goals were the same, that was the difference between a
patriot and a traitor. As far as Vandal was
concerned, a man who would betray his country would
certainly betray his partners in crime. That was something
Etienne Vandal knew about. His grandfather was a former
Nazi collaborator who died in a French
prison. It wasn't only that Charles
Vandal had betrayed his country. He'd been a
member of the Mulot resistance group, which had been
responsible for stealing and hiding art and treasures before
the Germans could plunder them from French museums.
Charles Vandal not only turned over Mulot and his
team, but he led the Germans to a cache of French
art.
  They had less than one block to go. A few
tourists
  who were still out at this hour turned to look at the
speeding van. The vehicle shot past the UN
library building on the south side of the plaza.
Then Georgiev raced past the first guard booth with
its green-tinted bulletproof glass and
bored-looking officers. The booth was located behind the
black iron fence, which was separated from the avenue
by twenty feet of sidewalk. There were extra
guards for tonight's soiree and the gape was closed, but that
didn't matter. The target area was less than
fifty feet to the north. Georgiev passed the
second guard booth. Then, clearing a fire
hydrant just beyond, he swung the van to the right and
floored the gas pedal. The vehicle shot across the
sidewalk, hitting one pedestrian and running him
under the driver's-side wheel. Several
others were knocked to the side. A moment later, the
van ripped through a yard-high chain-link fence. The
sound of the metal scraping the sides of the van drowned
out the screams of injured pedestrians. The vehicle
plowed through a small garden filled with trees and
shrubs, Georgiev steering clear of the large tree
on the south side of the garden. A few low-hanging
branches from other trees smashed against the windshield
and roof. Some branches snapped, others whipped
back as the van pushed ahead. To the north and south,
UN police, members of the NYPD, and a handful of
white-shirted State Department police were just
beginning to respond to the breach. Guns drawn,
radios in hand, they ran from the three guard booths
along First Avenue, from the booth inside the
courtyard to the north, and from the police outpost across
the street.
  It took just over two seconds for the van
to drill through the garden and the row of hedges at the far
end.
  The men in the back of the van braced themselves as
Georgiev crushed down on the brake. The garden
was separated from the circular plaza by a concrete
barrier just over three feet high and nearly one
foot thick. The flagpoles, which flew the
flags of the 185 member nations, stood in a row beyond
the barrier. Georgiev and Vandal ducked low. They
were expecting to lose the windshield. Barone slid the
van door open. Sazanka lay down, prepared
to spray covering fire if necessary. Downer leaned out
over him and pointed his missile launcher at the
thick wall. He aimed low to make sure he
didn't leave anything close to the ground. Then he
fired.
  There was an ear-ringing roar, and then a
seven-foot-wide section of the concrete barrier was
gone. Several large chunks flew across the plaza
like cannonballs, some landing in the fountain, others
bouncing across the drive. But most of the wall rose in
a wide, fifty-foot-high plume of jagged white
shards, then rained down like hail. Behind the wall,
five of the tall white flagpoles snapped near the
bases. They fell straight and hard and landed on the
asphalt with a loud clang. Vandal could hear it even
though his ears were still clogged from the explosion. Even as
the bits of concrete were still falling, Georgiev
gunned the engine and pushed the van ahead. Timing was
critical. They had to keep moving. He roared through
the breach in the barrier, clipping the driver's side
on an outthrust of concrete, but didn't
stop. Downer had ducked back into the van, but
Sazanka continued to lie in the open side door,
ready to fire at anyone who shot at them. No one
did. While they were part of the PKO and first conceived of
this idea, the men had easily
  obtained a copy of the United Nations police
guidelines. They were very explicit: No one was
to act individually against a group. The threat was to be
contained, if possible, by whatever personnel were on
hand, but not challenged until sufficient units were
made available. It was pure United Nations
philosophy. It didn't- workin the international
arena, and it wasn't going to work here. Georgiev
headed northeast across the plaza. Though the
windshield had shattered, it was still in the frame.
Fortunately, there wasn't much the Bulgarian
needed to see. The van shot across the exit lane of the
courtyard and hopped onto the lawn that led to the
General Assembly Building. Georgiev sped
east around the Japanese Peace Bell. As
Vandal ducked again, the van crashed through the large
plate glass windows that opened onto the courtyard
from the small lobby. The van slammed into the statue
of El Abrazo de Paz, a stylized human
figure "embracing peace" that stood just
inside. The statue fell over, and the van rode up
on it; that was as far as the van was going. But that was also
as far as they needed the van to go. By the time guards and
attendees at the delegates' soiree first became
aware of the disturbance, the five men were already out of the
van. Georgiev fired a short burst at the
guard who was posted outside the corridor that led to the
staff elevators. The young man spun and fell, the
first UN casualty. Vandal wondered whether he'd
get a peace statue in his honor as well.
  The five men ran down the corridor and swung
onto the escalators. The escalators had been
shut down by security personnel. That was something they
hadn't anticipated, not that it mattered. They quickly
ran up the two flights, then turned to their left.
The stalled escalator
  was the only form of resistance they met. What
Germany had proved in Poland in 1939, what
Saddam Hussein had proved in Kuwait in
1990, is that there is no effective defense against
a well-planned lightning strike. There's only
recovery and then a counterattack. And in this case,
neither would be of any use. Less than ninety
seconds after turning off First Avenue, the five
men were inside the heart of the Secretariat
Building. They ran alongside the tall windows that
overlooked the courtyard. The fountain had been shut
down to allow clear visbility into the Secretariat
windows. Traffic had been stopped, and tourists were
being herded onto side streets. Police and
security forces were everywhere now.
  Seal off the building, contain the problem, Vandal
thought. They were so damned predictable.
  There were also several guards running toward them. The
three men and one woman were wearing bulletproof
vests and listening to their radios. They had their guns
drawn and were obviously headed toward the Security
Council chamber, which was on their right. They had
probably been sent to evacuate the delegates in
case that was the target.
  The young guards never made it. Upon seeing the
intruders, they stopped. Then, like any soldier or
police officer who had never been in combat, they
snapped into the only thing they knew: training mode.
From the United Nations security force manual,
Vandal knew that in a showdown situation, they would
attempt to spread out and present a less
concentrated target, take cover if possible, and
attempt to disable the enemy. Georgiev and
Sazanka didn't give them the chance.
Firing their Uzis from the hip, they sliced across the
  guards' thighs and dropped them virtually where they
stood. Guns and radios clattered on the tile
floor. As the wounded guards moaned, the two men
walked on, firing a second burst into the head of
each one. They stopped a few yards from the bodies.
Georgiev picked up two of the radios that had
skidded across the floor. "Come on," Vandal said and
hurried on.
  Barone and Downer joined him, and the five men
continued forward. Now the only things that stood between them
and the Security Council chambers were four dead
guards and a blood-slicked floor.
  New York, New York Saturday, 7:34
P.m.
  All the parents in the correspondents' area
heard and felt the crash downstairs. Since there were
no windows in the room, they couldn't be sure
exactly where or what it was. Paul Hood's
first thought was that there had been an explosion. That was also
the conclusion of several parents who wanted to go and
make sure the children were all right. But Mr. Dillon
walked in then. The guard asked everyone to stay where
they were and to remain calm.
  "I just went across the hall to the
Security Council," Dillon said. "The children are
fine. Most of the delegates are also there waiting for the
secretary-general. Security personnel are on
the way to evacuate the kids, the delegates, and
then you folks. If you stay calm, everyone will be
fine."
  "Do you have any idea what happened?" one of the
parents asked. "I'm not sure," Mr. Dillon
said. "It looks like a van ran through the barrier and
into the courtyard. I could see it out the window. But no
one knows)"
  He was interrupted by several pops from below. It
sounded like gunfire. Dillon got on his radio.
  "Station Freedom-Seven to base," he said.
  There was a lot of yelling and noise. Then someone
on the other end said, "There's been a breach,
Freedom-Seven. Intruders unknown. Go
to Everest--Six, Code Red. Do you have that?"
"Everest-Six, Code Red," Dillon said.
"I'm on my way." He clicked off the radio
and headed toward the door. "I'm going back to the
Security Council chambers to wait for the other
guards. Please, all of you just stay here. his
  "How long until the other guards arrive?" one
of the fathers shouted.
  "A few minutes," Mr. Dillon replied.
  He left. The door shut with a solid click.
Except for shouts from somewhere outside the building,
everything was quiet. Suddenly, one of the fathers started
toward the door. "I'm going to get my daughter,"
he said.
  Hood stepped between the larger man and the door.
"Don't," Hood said.
  "Why?" the man demanded.
  "Because the last thing security, medics, and fire
personnel need is people getting in the way," Hood
said. "Besides, they called this a code red situation.
That probably means there's been a major
security breach."
  "All the more reason to get our kids out!" one of the
other fathers said.
  "No," Hood replied. "This is international
soil. American laws and niceties don't
apply. The guards will probably shoot
unidentified personnel."
  "How do you know that?"
  "I worked for a federal intelligence agency after I
left Los Angeles," Hood told them.
"I've seen people
  down for being in the wrong place at the
wrong time."
  The man's wife came over and took his arm.
"Charlie, please. Mr. Hood is right. Let the
authorities handle this."
  "But our daughter is out there," Charlie said. "So
is mine," Hood said. "And getting myself killed
isn't going to help her." It hit him just then that
Harleigh was out there, and she really was in danger. He
looked at Sharon, who was standing to the right, in the
corner. He walked over and hugged her. "Paul,"
she whispered. "I-I think we should be with
Harleigh." "We will be, soon," he said.
  There were footsteps in the hall followed by the
distinctive phup- phup-phup of an automatic.
The shots were followed by clattering, cries, shouts,
and more footsteps. Then the hall was silent. "Whose
side was that?" Charlie asked no one in particular.
Hood didn't know. He left Sharon and walked
toward the door. He crouched low in ease someone
fired and motioned for everyone in the room to stand back,
clear of the door. Then he reached up and slowly
turned the silver knob. He eased the door open.
There were four bodies lying in the corridor between the
correspondents' room and the Security Council.
They belonged to UN security personnel.
Whoever had shot them was gone, though they'd left
bloody tracks in their wake. Tracks that led to the
Security Council.
  Hood experienced a strange flashbackcom He
felt like Thomas Davies, a firefighter he
used to play softball with in Los Angeles. One
afternoon, Davies had gotten
  a call that his own home was burning. The man
knew what to do, he knew what was happening, yet
he couldn't react. Hood shut the door and walked
toward the desks. "What is it?" Charlie asked.
  Hood didn't answer him. He was trying to get
himself moving. "Dammit, what happened?" Charlie
shouted. Hood said, "Four guards are dead, and
whoever shot them has gone into the Security Council
chambers." "My baby," one of the mothers sobbed.
  "I'm sure they're all right for now," Hood
said. "Yeah, and you were sure they'd be all right if
we stayed in here!" Charlie yelled.
  Charlie's rage brought Hood out of his shock.
"If you'd been outside, you'd be dead now,"
Hood said. "Mr. Dillon wouldn't have let you
into the chambers, and you'd've been killed with the
guards." He took a breath to calm himself. Then
he slipped his cell phone from the pocket
of his blazer. He punched in a number. "Who are
you calling?" Sharon asked.
  Her husband finished entering the number. He
looked at her and touched her cheek. "Someone who
won't give a shit that this is international
territory," he replied. "Someone who can help
us."
  TEN
  Bethesda, Maryland Saturday, 7:48 P.m.
  Mike Rodgers was going through a Gary Cooper
phase. Not in his real life but in his movie life
--though at the moment, the two lives were entirely
codependent.
  Op-Center's forty-five-year-old former
deputy director, now acting director, had
never been confused or insecure. He had his nose
broken four times playing college basketball
because he saw the basket and went for it, damning the
Torpedoes-as well as the Badgers, the Ironmen,
the Thrashers, and the other teams he played. When
he'd served two tours of duty in Vietnam and
commanded a mechanized brigade in the Gulf War,
he was given objectives and had met them all. Every
damn one of them. On his first mission with Striker,
to North Korea, he'd kept a
fanatical officer from nuking Japan. When he
returned from Vietnam, he'd even found time to get
a Ph.d. in world history. But now-
  It wasn't just Paul Hood resigning that
depressed him, though that was part of the problem. It was
ironic. Two and a half years ago, Rodgers
had found it difficult to report to the man--a
civilian who had been attending fund-raisers with
movie stars while Rodgers was chasing Iraq out of
Kuwait. But Hood had proven himself a
  steady, politically savvy manager. Rodgers
was going to miss the man and his leadership.
  Dressed in a loose-fitting gray sweat suit
and Nikes, Rodgers shifted carefully on the
leather sofa. He slumped back slowly. Just two
weeks before, he'd been captured by terrorists in the
Bekaa Valley in Lebanon. The second- and
third-degree burns he'd suffered during
torture were still not completely healed. Neither were the
internal wounds.
  Rodgers's gaze had wandered. He looked back
at the TV, profound sadness in his light brown
eyes. He was watching Vera Cruz, one of
Cooper's last films. He was playing a former
Civil War officer who went south of the
border to work as a mercenary and ended up embracing the
cause of local revolutionaries. Strength,
dignity, and honor-that was Coop.
  That used to be Mike Rodgers, he reflected
sadly. He'd lost more than some flesh and his
freedom in Lebanon. Being strung up in a
cave and burned with a blowtorch had cost him his
confidence. And not because he'd been afraid to die.
He believed passionately in the Viking code, that
the process of death began with the moment of birth, and that
death in combat was the most honorable way of reaching
one's inevitable end. But he was nearly denied that.
Extreme pain, like a high fever, robs the mind of
orderliness. The calm and collected torturer
becomes the voice of reason and tells the mind where
to touch down. And Rodgers was perilously close to that
point, to telling the terrorists how to operate the
Regional Op-Center they'd captured.
  That's why Rodgers needed Gary Cooper. Not
to heal his soul-he didn't think that was possible.
He'd seen his breaking point, and he could never lose
that knowledge, that awareness of his own limitations. It reminded
him of the first time. he twisted his ankle playing
basketball and it didn't heal overnight. The
sense of invulnerability was gone forever. A
broken spirit was worse.
  What Mike Rodgers needed now was to try
to prop up the confidence his captors had taken from
him. Fortify himself enough to run Op-Center until the
president decided on a replacement for Paul
Hood. Then he could make decisions about his own
future. Rodgers looked back at the TV
screen. Movies had always been a haven for him, a
source of nourishment. When his alcoholic father used
to punch the bell out of him-not just hit but punch, with his
Yale class ring young Mike Rodgers would get
on his bicycle, go to the local movie theater, pay
his twenty-five cents, and crawl into a Western or
war film or historical epic. Over the years,
he modeled his morality, his life, his career after the
characters played by John Wayne and Charlton Heston
and Burt Lancaster. He couldn't remember a time
when any of them came close to breaking under
torture, though. He felt very alone. Coop had
just rescued a Mexican girl who was being abused
by renegade soldiers when the cordless phone rang.
Rodgers picked it up.
  "Hello?"
  "Mike, thank God you're in-was "Paul?"
  "Yeah. Listen," Hood said. "I'm
inside the United Nations Correspondents'
room across from the Security Council chambers.
Four guards have just been gunned down in the
corridor."
  Rodgers sat up. "By whom?"
  "I don't know," Hood said. "But it looks like
the people who did it went inside."
  "Where's Harleigh?" Rodgers asked.
  "She's in there," Hood said. "Most of the
members of the Security Council and the entire string
ensemble were in the chambers." Rodgers grabbed the
remote, switched off the DVD, and turned on
CNN. Reporters were live at the United
Nations. It didn't sound as if they knew much about
what was going on. "Mike, you know what the security
setup is here," Hood said. "If this is a
multinational hostage situation, depending on who the
perpetrators are, the UN could argue about
jurisdiction for hours before they even address the
issue of getting the people out." "Understood," Rodgers
said. "I'll call Bob and put him on this. Are
you on your cell phone?"
  "Yes."
  "Keep me apprised when you can," Rodgers said.
"All right," Hood replied. "Mike-was
  "Paul, we're going to take care of this,"
Rodgers assured him. "You know there's usually some
kind of cooling-down period immediately after a
takeover. Demands stated, attempts
to negotiate. We won't waste any of that time.
You and Sharon just have to try and stay calm."
  Hood thanked him and hung up. Rodgers
turned up the volume on the TV, listening as he
rose slowly. The newscaster had no idea who had
driven the van or why they'd attacked the United
Nations. There had been no official announcement,
and no communication from the
  five people who'd apparently gone into the Security
Council chambers.
  Rodgers shut off the television. While the
general headed to his bedroom to dress, he punched
in Bob Herbert's mobile phone number.
Op-Center's intelligence chief was at dinner with
Andrea Fortelni, a deputy assistant
secretary of state. Herbert hadn't dated much in
the years since his wife was killed in Beirut, but
he was a chronic intel collector. Foreign
governments, his own government, it didn't matter.
As in the Japanese movie Rashomon--which was the
only thing besides sushi and The Seven
Samurai that Rodgers enjoyed from Japan-there was
rarely any truth in government affairs. Just
different perspectives. And professional that
Herbert was, he liked having as many
perspectives as possible.
  Herbert was also a man who was devoted to his friends
and coworkers. When Rodgers called to tell him what
had happened, Herbert said he'd be at Op-Center
within the half hour. Rodgers told him to have Matt
Stoll come in as well. They might need to get
into UN computers, and Matt was a peerless hacker.
Meanwhile, Rodgers said that he'd call Striker
and put them on yellow alert, in case they were
needed. Along with the rest of Op-Center, the elite,
twenty-one-person rapid-deployment force was based
at the FBI Academy in Quantico. They could
get to the United Nations in well under an hour if
necessary.
  Rodgers hoped the precautions would not be necessary.
Unfortunately, terrorists who started out with murder
had nothing to lose by killing again. Besides, for nearly
half a century, terrorism had proven
impervious to conciliatory, United Nation sstyle
diplomacy.
  Hope, he thought bitterly. What was it
some play wright or scholar had once written? That
hope is the feeling you have that the feeling you have isn't
permanent. Rodgers finished dressing, then hurried
into the fading light and climbed into his car. His own
concerns were forgotten as he headed south along the
George Washington Memorial Parkway
to Op-Center. To help rescue a girl from
renegades.
  Andrews Air Farce Base, Maryland
Saturday, 8:37 P.m. Forty years ago, at
the peals of the Cold War, the nondescript,
two-story building in the northeast corner of
Andrews Air Force Base was a ready room. It
was the staging area for elite flight crews known as the
Ravens. In the event of a nuclear attack, it would
have been the job of the Ravens to evacuate key
government and military officials from Washington,
D.c., and relocate them in an underground
facility in the Blue Ridge Mountains. But the
ivory-colored building was not a monument to another
era. There were gardens in the dirt patches where
soldiers used to drill, and the seventy-eight people who
worked here were not all in uniform.
  They were handpicked tacticians, generals,
diplomats, intelligence analysts,
computer specialists, psychologists,
reconnaissance experts, environmentalists,
attorneys, and press liaisons who worked for the
National Crisis Management Center. After a
two-year tooling-up period overseen by interim
director Bob Herbert, the former ready room
became a high-tech Operations Center designed
to interface withand assist the White House, the
National Reconnaissance Office, the Central
Intelligence Agency,
  the National Security Agency, the State
Department, the Department of Defense, the Defense
Intelligence Agency, the Federal Bureau of
Investigation, Interpol, and numerous foreign
intelligence agencies in the management of domestic
and international crises. However, after single-handedly
defusing the crises in North Korea and
Russia, Op-Center proved itself uniquely
qualified to monitor, initiate, or manage
operations worldwide. All of that had happened during
Paul Hood's watch. General Mike Rodgers
stopped his Jeep at the security gate. An
Air Force guard stepped from the booth. Though
Rodgers was not in uniform, the young sergeant saluted
and raised the iron bar. Rodgers drove
through. Although it was Paul Hood who had run the show,
Rodgers had been a hands-on participant in every
decision and in several of the military actions. He was
eager to handle the crisis at hand, especially if
they could work this in the way he knew best:
independently and covertly.
  Rodgers parked and jogged as quickly as his tight
bandages would allow. He passed through the keypad
entry on the ground floor of Op-Center. After
greeting the armed guards seated behind the bulletproof
Lexan, Rodgers hurried through the first-floor
administrative level. The real activity of
Op-Center took place in the secure, below-ground
facility.
  Emerging in the heart of Op-Center, known as the
bullpen, Rodgers moved quickly through the
checker-board of cubicles to the executive wing.
The offices were arrayed in a semicircle on the
north side of the facility. He bypassed his own
office and went directly to the conference room, which
attorney Lowell Coffey III had dubbed "the
Tank."
  The walls, floor, door, and ceiling of the
Tank were all covered with sound-absorbing strips of
mottled gray and black Acoustix; behind the
strips were several layers of cork, a foot of
concrete, and more Acoustix. In the midst of the
concrete, on all six sides of the room, was a
pair of wire grids that generated vacillating
audio waves. Electronically, nothing could enter
or leave the room. In order to receive calls from his
cell phone, Rodgers had to stop and program the
phone to forward calls to his office and then to here.
  Bob Herbert was already there, along with Coffey,
Ann Farris, Liz Gordon, and Matt
Stoll. All had been off duty but came in so that
the weekend night crew could continue to attend
to regular Op-Center business. The concern everyone
felt was palpable. "Thanks for coming," Rodgers said
as he swung into the room. He shut the door behind
him and took his seat at the head of the oblong
mahogany table. There were computer stations at either end
of the table and telephones at each of the twelve
chairs. "Mike, you spoke with Paul?" Ann
asked.
  "Yes."
  "How is he?" she asked.
  "Paul and Sharon are both worried," Rodgers
said curtly. The general kept his conversations with
Ann as short as possible with as little eye
contact as possible. He didn't care for the press,
and he didn't like spinning it. His idea of press
relations was to tell the truth or to say nothing. But
above all, he didn't approve of Ann's
fascination with Paul Hood. It was partly a moral
issue--Hood was married-and partly a practical
one. They all had to work together. Sexual chemistry
was unavoidable, but "Dr." Farris never took off
her lab coat when she was around Hood.
  If Ann noticed, she didn't react.
  "I told Paul we'd let him know when we have
something," Rodgers said. "But I don't want
to call unless it's absolutely necessary. If Paul
doesn't get evacuated, he may try to get
closer to the situation. I don't want the phone
beeping while he's got his ear to a closed door."
  "Besides which," Stoll said, "that line's not exactly
secure." Rodgers nodded. He looked over at
Herbert. "I phoned Colonel August on the
way over. He's got Striker on yellow alert
and is checking the DOD database for everything
they've got on the United Nations complex."
  "The CIA did a pretty thorough job of
mapping the place while it was going up," Herbert
said. "I'm sure there'll be a lot on
file." Well-dressed attorney Lowell
Coffey III was seated to Rodgers's left. "You
understand, Mike, that the United States has
absolutely no jurisdiction anywhere on the
grounds of the United Nations," he pointed out. "Not
even the NYPD can go in there without being asked."
  "I understand," Rodgers said.
  "Do you care?" Liz Gordon asked.
  Rodgers looked at the husky staff
psychologist who was seated next to Coffey.
"Only about Harleigh Hood and the other kids in the
Security Council chamber," he replied.
  Liz looked like she wanted to say something. She
didn't. She didn't have to. Rodgers could see
the disapproval in her expression. When he came
back from
  the Middle East, she'd talked to him about not
taking out his anger and despair on other targets.
He didn't think he was. These people, whoever they
were, had earned his anger on their own. Rodgers
turned to Herbert, who was sitting to his right. "Is
there any intel on whoever did this?" Herbert sat
forward in his wheelchair. "Nothing," said the balding
intelligence chief. "The perps came in with a van.
We got the license number off the TV
and chased it down to the rental car agency. The guy it
was rented to, Ilya Gaft, is a fake."
  "He had to show a driver's license to the clerk,"
Rodgers said. Herbert nodded. "And it checked out
with the Department of Motor Vehicles until we
asked for his file. There wasn't one. A
counterfeit license is pretty easy to get."
  Rodgers nodded.
  "There was triple security on board for this
soiree," Herbert said. "I had a look at the
comparable figures from last year's bash. The problem
is, they were all concentrated pretty much at the
three drive-through check-points and in the square
north of the United Nations. These perps apparently
blew their way through the concrete barrier using a
rocket launcher, then drove across the courtyard and
right into the damned.: building. Shot everyone they
came up against before holing up inside the Security
Council." "And there's been no word from them?"
Rodgers asked. "Not a whisper," Herbert said.
"I called Darrell over in Spain. He called
someone at Interpol in Madrid who is close to people
at UN security. They got in touch
  immediately. As soon as they hear anything about what's
inside the van or the kind of weapons these
guys used, we'll know." "What about the UN? Have
they said anything about this publicly?" Rodgers asked
Ann.
  "Nothing," she told him. "No spokesperson
has come out." "No statement to the press?"
  Ann shook her head. "The UN Information
Service is not a rapid-response force."
  "The United Nations's not a rapid-response
anything," Herbert said disgustedly. "The guy
Darrell's friend at Interpol calledhe's a
personal aide to a Colonel Rick Mott,
who's the head of United Nations security. The
aide said that they hadn't even collected the spent
shells from outside the Security Council chamber
yet, let alone checked them for fingerprints or
provenance. And that was about thirty-five minutes after
this whole thing started. They were just getting themselves
organized to look at tapes from the security
cameras and then go into a meeting with the
secretary-general."
  "They're good at meetings," Rodgers said.
"What about other tapes?" he asked Ann. "The
news services must've gone after every tourist on the
street, trying to get video of the attack."
  "Good idea," she said. "I'll have
Mary make some calls, though at that hour, there
probably weren't very many tourists out." Ann
picked up the phone and asked her assistant to run
a check of what the networks and cable news services
might have collected. "You know," Coffey said,
"I'm pretty sure the police have surveillance
cameras on some streets in New
  York. I'll call the city's district
attorney and find out." The attorney reached
inside his blue blazer and slipped out his digital
pocket address book.
  Rodgers was staring at the table. Both Ann and
Coffey were on the phone. But not enough was happening. They
needed to do more. "Matt," Rodgers said, "the
attackers had to have accessed the DMV computer at
some point to put the fake license in."
  "That's a pretty easy hack," Stoll said.
  "Fine. But is there any way we can track the
hack backward to whoever did it?" Rodgers asked.
  "No," said the portly Stoll. "A trace like
that is something you have to set up. You wait until they
strike and then follow the signal back. Even then,
a good hacker can run the signal through terminals in
other cities. Hell, he can bounce it off a
couple of satellites if he wants.
Besides, for all we know, these people had someone on the
inside."
  "That's true," Herbert said.
  Rodgers continued to stare. He needed a history,
a pattern, anything they could use to start building a
profile. And he needed it fast.
  "They've held these parties every year for five
years," Herbert said. "Maybe someone cased the thing
last year. We should probably have a look at the
guest list, see if anyone-was Just then Rodgers's
phone beeped. He grabbed it, wincing as he strained
the bandages around his right side. "Rodgers here."
"It's Paul," said the caller.
  Rodgers motioned for everyone to be quiet, then
  punched the speaker button. "We're here," he
said. "In the Tank." "What are you hearing?"
  "Nothing," Rodgers told him. "No
statements, no demands. How are you doing?"
  "The phone rang a minute ago," Hood said.
"They're sending up an evac team. Before they do,
I want to try and see what's going on."
Rodgers didn't like the idea of Paul moving around
unannounced. Skittish security forces just arriving
on the scene could mistake him for a terrorist. But
Paul knew that. Paul also knew that if
Striker were going to do anything to help get Harleigh
and the other kids out, they needed intel.
  "I'm at the door," he said. "I hear
footsteps outside. Opening- There was a long
silence. Rodgers looked at the faces of the other people
in the room. Everyone was somber and staring down; Ann
was flushed. She had to know everyone was thinking about how
she was reacting to all this. Everyone but Rodgers.
He was wishing that he were there with Hood, in the thick of
this. How did the world turn upside down like this? The
manager was in the field, and the soldier was at a
desk.
  "Hold on," Hood said quietly. "Something's
happening., , There was another silence, this one short.
"Mike, there's someone coming out of the Security
Council chamber," Hood said. "Oh, Christ,"
he said a moment later. "Christ."
  TWELVE
  New York, New York Saturday, 9:01
P dism.
  Reynold Downer stood in one of the two
Security Council chamber doorways that opened
into the corridor. The double oak doors were in the far
northern corner of the long, back wall of the
council. Outside and just beyond the doors, a
second wall jutted into the corridor
perpendicular to the Security Council wall.
Downer had opened only the far side door. The
Australian was still wearing his ski mask.
  In front of Downer was a slender, middleaged
man in a black suit. He was Swedish
delegate Lddeif Johanson. There was a single
sheet of legal-sized paper in his trembling hands.
Downer was holding a handful of the man's blond hair
and pulling backward slightly. His automatic was
pressed to the base of the man's skull. The
Australian turned the man so that he was facing
away from the corner formed by the two walls.
  Ahead of them were a dozen United Nations
security guards. The men and women were wearing
bulletproof vests and helmets with thick visors.
Their guns were drawn. Several of the guards were shaking
slightly. That wasn't surprising. Though the
bodies of their dead comrades had been removed, their
blood was still on the floor.
  "Speak," Downer said into the captive's ear. The
man looked down at the legal-sized paper. He
was trembling hard as he read from it.
  "I've been ordered to inform you of the following," he
said softly in a Swedish accent.
  "Louder!" Downer hissed.
  The man spoke up. "You have ninety minutes
to deliver 250 million dollars U.s. to the
Zurich Confederated Finance account VEB-
9167681-EPB. The name on the account is
false, and any attempts to access it will result
in additional deaths. You will also deliver a
helicopter with ten-person capacity, running and
fully fueled, in the courtyard. We will be taking
passengers with us to ensure your continued cooperation. You
will notify us by radio on the regular United
Nations security channel when both are there. No
other communications will be acknowledged. If you fail,
one hostage will be killed then and every hour thereafter starting
with myself." The man stopped. He had to wait until
the paper stopped shaking before continuing. "Any
attempt to liberate the hostages will result in the
release of poison gas which will kill everyone in the
room."
  Downer quickly pulled the man back toward the open
door. He told him to drop the paper so the
officials would have the bank number, then ordered him
to shut the door as they stepped inside. When it
closed, Downer released the man's hair. The
Swede stood there unsteadily.
  "I should have tried to run," the Swede muttered.
He looked at the door. He was obviously
weighing his chances of getting back outside.
  "Hands on your head, and move," Downer growled.
The Swede looked at Downer. "Why? You're going
  to shoot me in an hour whether I cooperate or
not!" "Not if they deliver," Downer said.
  "They can't!" he cried. "They won't simply
turn over a quarter of a billion dollars!"
  Downer raised the gun. "It would be a shame if
they do, and I've already killed you," he said. "Or
if I kill you and then have to shoot your companion
ninety minutes from now."
  His defiance faded quickly. Reluctantly, the
Swede put his hands on top of his head. He started
down the staircase, which ran along the southern side
of the gallery.
  Downer walked several paces behind the delegate.
To the left were green-velvet seats grouped in two
tiers of five rows each. Before the era of heightened
security, these seats were used by the public to watch the
activities of the Security Council. A
waist-high wooden wall separated the bottom row
of seats from the main floor. There was a single row of
chairs in front of that wall. These seats
were reserved for delegates who were not members of the
Security Council. Beyond the viewing area was the
main section of the Security Council chamber. This
section was dominated by a large table shaped like a
rounded horseshoe. Inside this table was a narrow,
rectangular table facing east and west. When the
Security Council was in session, the delegates
sat at the outer table and the translators sat at the
center table. Tonight, the children were sitting at the far side
of the circular table and the guests of the delegates were
seated at the circular table and at the rectangular
one in the center. The delegates themselves were sitting
on the floor inside the circular table. As the
Swede rejoined the other delegates, his companion,
a striking young woman, looked
  at him from where she was seated at the table. He
nodded that he was all right.
  Beyond the table, on either end of the chamber, two tall
floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the members of the
Security Council to look out on the East
River. The glass was bulletproof, and the green
drapes were drawn now. Between them was a large painting
that depicted the phoenix soaring from the ashes, the world
symbolically rising from the destruction of World War
H. On either side of the room, one floor
up, were the glass-enclosed media rooms, which had
replaced the correspondents' room.
  Barone and Vandal were standing in either corner of the
chamber, by the windows. Sazanka was positioned by the
north side door, and Georgiev was a floater,
moving around and keeping an eye on the five
additional doors on the main floor. Right now, he
was standing in the opening of the horseshoe table. Like
Downer, the men were all still wearing their ski masks.
  As soon as the Swede was seated, Downer walked
over to Georgiev. "Who was out there?" Georgiev
asked.
  "They had about a dozen ladies in the
corridor," Downer said. The ladies were the
general-purpose UN security guards,
so-called because they usually stood around talking. The
guards they had shot on the way in were all ladies.
  "There were no special forces personnel,"
Downer said. "They can't even act decisively when
their own bacon is burning."
  "That is something they will learn to do this evening,"
Georgiev said.
  Georgiev nodded toward the Swede. "He
delivered the message exactly as I wrote it?"
  Downer nodded.
  The Bulgarian looked at his watch. "Then they
have eighty-four minutes left before we start sending out
bodies."
  "You really think they'll comply?" Downer asked
quietly. "Not at first," Georgiev said.
"I've said that all along." He glanced over at
the tables. His voice was matter-of-fact as he said,
"But they will. When the bodies pile up and we come
closer and closer to the children, they will."
  New York, New York Saturday, 9:33
P.m.
  Paul Hood did a quick, schizophrenic
two-step. Hood hadn't breathed while he listened
to the terrorists' demands. The crisis manager in
him hadn't wanted to miss a word or inflection,
anything that might tell him if they had any of that
wiggle room Mike had spoken about. They did not.
The demands were specific and time-sensitive. Now that
the terrorists were finished addressing the guards,
Hood couldn't breathe. The crisis manager had
been replaced by the father, one who had just learned the
improbable price of his daughter's freedom.
  What was improbable was not the amount of the demand.
Hood knew from his banking days that up to a billion
dollars was liquid in banks and in the
local federal reserve institutions in New York
and Boston. Even the time frame was manageable if
the United Nations and the federal government put their
minds to it. But they wouldn't. In order to get
cooperation from local banks and the federal reserve, the
United States government would have to guarantee the
loan. The federal government might do that if the
secretary-general asked and agreed to cover the loan
with UN assets. However, the secretary-general
might be afraid to do so for fear of
  offending nations that already resented American
influence over the United Nations. And even if the
United States wanted to pay the money as a means
of settling part of its outstanding debt, Congress would
be required to okay the expenditure. Even an
emergency session could not be organized in time. And,
of course, once the money was transferred, the
terrorists would execute electronic transfers,
scattering it in different accounts throughout the system and
into linked accounts in other banks or investment
groups. There would be no way to mark the funds or
to stop the transfer. And there would be no way to stop the
terrorists. They'd asked for a ten-seat helicopter
because they intended to take hostages with them. One
hostage per person, excluding the pilot.
That meant there were probably four or five
terrorists. All of this shot through Hood's mind in
the time it took him to shut the door. He turned
back into the room and managed to draw a low, shallow
breath. The other parents had heard the demands and were still
processing what had happened. Sharon was standing beside
her husband. She was looking at him, tears
trickling down her cheeks. Suddenly he was someone
else: the husband. A husband who had to stay steady
for his wife.
  The door opened, and Hood turned. A guard
leaned into the room while another guard covered the
corridor. "Come with me!" the young man barked.
"Quickly and quietly," he added as he waved them
on. Hood stepped aside as the parents filed by.
Sharon stepped with him. He took her hand in his
left hand and just now remembered the phone in his right.
He put it to his mouth. "Mike?" he said. "Are
you still there?" "I'm here, Paul," Rodgers said.
"We heard."
  "We're being moved," Hood said. "I'll
call back." "We'll be here," Rodgers
assured him.
  Hood closed the phone and slipped it back
into his pocket. As the last parent left
the room, Hood gave his wife's hand a gentle
tug. She went along, and he followed her out. The
parents were hurried past the Security Council
chamber, back toward the escalators. There were a
few sobs and shouted pleas for their children's return, but
the guards kept the group moving. Hood was still
holding Sharon's hand. She was squeezing his fingers
tightly, probably without being aware of how hard she
was gripping them.
  As they filed onto the escalators, Hood could
see more guards coming up with six-foot-high,
transparent blast shields, audio equipment, and
what looked like fiber-optic gear. They were
obviously going to try to get a look at how the
hostages were being held and also listen for snippets of
conversation that might tell them who the terrorists were.
But Hood knew that this wasn't going to get their
kids back. The United Nations didn't have the
tactical know-how or the personnel to do that. They were
an organization of consensus, not action.
  "Tell me you have a plan," Sharon said softly
as they rode the escalators down. She was weeping
openly. So were several other parents.
  "We're going to think of something," Hood
replied. "I need more than that," Sharon
said. "Harleigh's my girl, and I'm leaving her
alone and scared up there. I have to know I'm doing the
right thing."
  "You are," Hood said. "We'll get her out of
there, I promise." As soon as the group reached the
main lobby, they
  were taken downstairs. A temporary command center
was being set up in the lobby outside the gift shops
and restaurant. That made sense. If the
terrorists had accomplices, it would be difficult
for them to monitor activities down here. The
press would also have trouble getting down here, which was
probably good. Given the international scope of
what was happening, press coverage was inevitable.
Since the UN would want to keep the number of people
down here to a minimum, they would probably select
a small pool of journalists.
  The parents were taken to the public cafeteria, where
they were seated at tables far from the lobby. They were
offered sandwiches, bottled water, and coffee. One
of the fathers lit a cigarette. He was not asked to put
it out. Moments later, senior security personnel
arrived to debrief the parents about things they might have
seen or heard while they were in the press room. A
psychologist and doctor also came down
to help them get through the crisis.
  Hood did not need their assistance.
  Catching the eye of the security head, Hood said
that he was going out to the rest room. Rising, he
managed to smile for Sharon and then walked around the
tables into the lobby. He went to the rest room, entered
the rearmost stall, and got Mike Rodgers back
on the phone. He stood there, leaning against the tile
wall. His shirt was cold with perspiration.
  "Mike?" he said. "Here."
  "The UN people are moving in with AV gear,"
Hood said. "We've been relocated downstairs
for debriefing and psych support."
  "Classic response," Rodgers said.
"They're setting up for a siege." "That isn't
going to be an option," Hood said. "The terrorists
don't want to negotiate, they don't want
anyone freed from prison. They want money.
Doesn't the UN have a special response
unit?" "Yes," Rodgers said. "The UNSO-PS
is a nine-person division of the security force.
Established in 1977, trained by the NYPD in
SWAT tactics and hostage situations, and never
field-tested." "Jesus."
  "Yeah," Rodgers said. "Why would
anyone go after the United Nations? They're harmless.
We've got Darrell on another line. He
says that NYPD policy is to contain and
negotiate, to keep things from exploding. And if
things do blow, to keep them localized. It sounds like
the security team's setting up to do that where you are.
  Hood felt like he'd been kicked in the gut.
This was his daughter's death they were talking about
"localizing "I "Darrell's also in touch with a
contact in the secretary-general's office,"
Rodgers went on. "Chatterjee is getting together
with representatives of the affected nations."
  "To do what?" Hood asked.
  "At the moment, nothing. There doesn't appear
to be any inclination to accommodate the terrorists's
demands. They're still trying to figure out who these people
are. They have the paper with the Swede's script, but it
was obviously dictated and written by the delegate.
No help in tracing the terrorists."
  "So they just intend to sit this out."
  "For now," Rodgers said. "That's what the UN
does."
  Hood's sadness shaded to anger. He felt like
going into the Security Council chamber himself and
shooting the terrorists one after another.
Instead, he turned and punched the bottom of his fist
into the wall.
  "Paul," Rodgers said.
  Hood had never felt so helpless in his life.
"Paul, I have Striker on yellow alert."
  Hood leaned the top of his head against the wall.
"If you send them in here, the world--not just the federal
government-the world is going to chew you up and crap you
out."
  "I have one word for you," Rodgers said. "Entebbe.
Publicly, the world condemned Israeli commandos for
going into Uganda and rescuing those Air France
hostages from Palistinian terrorists. But
privately, every rightthinking individual slept a little
prouder that night. Paul, I don't give a
damn what China or Albania or the
secretary-general or even the president of the
United States thinks of me. I want to get those
kids out."
  Hood didn't know what to say. The jump from
yellow to red alert wasn't even his decision
to make, yet Rodgers wanted his approval.
Something about that touched him deeply.
  "I'm with you, Mike," Hood said. "I'm with
you, and God bless." "Go back to Sharon and
sit tight," Rodgers said. "I promise,
we'll get Harleigh out of there."
  Hood thanked him, shut the phone, and slipped it
into his pocket. Mike's gesture triggered tears
he'd been fighting since this whole thing started. He
stood there sobbing with his cheek pressed against the cold
tile. Af ter a minute, the bathroom door
opened. Hood sniffed back his tears, stood, and
unspooled some bathroom tissue. He wiped his
eyes.
  It was odd. Hood had told Sharon what she'd
wanted to hear, that they'd save Harleigh, even though
he didn't entirely believe it. Yet when
Mike said the same thing, Hood believed him. He
wondered if all faith was so easily
manipulated. A need to believe given a firm
push.
  He blew his nose and flushed the tissue down the
toilet. There was one difference, he thought as he
left the stall. Faith was faith, but Mike
Rodgers was Mike Rodgers. And one of them had
never let him down.
  Quantico, Virginia Saturday, 9:57
  The Marine Corps base at Quantico is a
sprawling, rustic facility that is the
home to diverse military units. These range from
the MarCorSysCom-Marine Corps Systems
Command-to the secretive Commandant's Warfighting
laboratory, a military think tank.
Quantico is regarded as the intellectual
crossroads of the Marine Corps, where teams of
neologistic "warfighters" are able to devise and
study tactics and then put them into operation in
realistic combat simulations. Quantico also
boasts some of the finest small-caliber weapons and
grenade ranges, ground maneuver sites, light
armor assault facilities, and physical
challenge courses in the United States
military.
  Many of the base's key functions actually take
place at Camp Upshur, a training encampment
located twenty-five miles northwest of the base
inside Training Area 17. There, Delta
Company, 4th Light Armored Reconnaissance
Battalion, 4th Marine Division,
Op-Center's Striker division, and the Marine
Reserve Support Units refine the
techniques they learned when they were recruits.
Comprised of twenty-one buildings that range from
classrooms to Quonset but-style squad
bays, Camp Upshur can billet up to 500
troops.
  Colonel Brett August liked Quantico,
and he really liked Upshur. He spent his time
equally between drilling his Striker squad and giving
classroom lectures in military history,
strategy, and theory. He also liked to put his people through
rigorous sports competitions. To him, those were as much
a psychological as a physiological workout.
It was interesting. He had set it up so that the winners
pulled extra duty. Garbage, kitchen, and
latrine. Yet no one had ever tried to lose a
basketball or football game, or even a
weekend piggyback fight in the pool with their kids.
Not once. In fact, August had never seen
soldiers so happy to be doing drudge work. Liz
Gordon was planning to write a paper on the
phenomenon, which she'd dubbed "The Masochism of
Victory." Right now, though, it was August who was
suffering. Upon returning from action in Spain,
promotions and long-in-the-works transfers had cost
him some key Strikers. In the few days following the
depletion, he'd been working hard with four new
warfighters. They'd been concentrating on night
targeting with 105mm Howitzers when the
call came from General Rodgers to put the team on
yellow alert. August had wanted to give the new
members more time to integrate with the old, but it didn't
matter. August was satisfied that the new people were
ready to see action if it became necessary. Marine
Second Lieutenants John Friendly and Judy
Quinn were as tough as August had ever seen, and
Delta's Privates First Class Tim
Lucas and Moe Longwood were their new
communications expert and hand-to-hand combat
specialist. There was natural competitiveness between
the two branches, but that was good. Under fire, the
barriers vanished, and they were all on the same team.
Skillwise, the new people would fit in nicely with
sea soned Strikers Sargeant Chick Grey,
Corporal Pat Prementine-the boy-genius of
infantry tactics-Private First Class
Sondra DeVonne, burly Private Walter
Pup-shaw, Private Jason Scott, and
Private Terrence Newmeyer.
  A yellow alert meant gearing up and waiting in the
ready room to see if the team was going to take the
next step. The ready room consisted of a gunmetal
desk by the door, which was manned round the clock by a
desk sergeant; hard wooden chairs
arranged classroom style-the brass didn't
want anyone getting too comfortable and going to sleep;
an old blackboard; and a computer terminal on a
table in front of the blackboard. In the event that they
were needed, a Bell LongRanger fifteen-seat
Model 205A-1 was being fired upon a nearby
landing strip for the half-hour ride to Andrews Air
Force Base. From there, the team would be flown
by C-130 to the Marine Air Terminal at New.
York's La Guardia Airport. Rodgers had
said that Striker's potential target was the United
Nations building. The C-130 didn't, need a
lot of runway, and La Guardia, though not a
regular stop for military traffic, was the field
closest to the United Nations.
  The one thing the tall, lean, thin-faced colonel
hated above all was waiting. A holdover from
Vietnam, it gave him a sense of being out of
control. Where August was a prisoner of war, he
had to wait for the next middle-of-the-night
interrogation, the next beating, the next death of someone
he served with. He had to wait for news, passed
along in careful whispers, by new arrivals in the
camp. But the worst wait of all came when
August tried to escape. He, had
to turn back when his partner was wounded and needed
medical care. He never got
  another chance to break out. His captors saw to that.
He had to wait for the long-winded, heel-dragging,
face-saving diplomats in Paris to negotiate his
release. None of that taught him patience. It
taught him that waiting was for people who had no other
options. He'd once told Liz Gordon that
waiting was the real definition of masochism.
  The United Nations was on the water's edge, so
Colonel August had the Strikers bring their wet
gear. And since they were going to Manhattan, they were
dressed like civilians. While the ten team
members checked their suits and equipment, August
used the ready room computer to visit the United
Nations home page. He had never been to the
building and wanted to get an idea of the layout. As
he navigated to the web site, the on-line news
of the day talked about the breaking story in New
York, the hostage situation at the United
Nations. August was surprised-not just that a
nonpartisan facility would be attacked by terrorists
but that U.s. troops would be on call to assist.
He couldn't think of a single scenario in which
American armed forces would be invited
to help out in a situation like that.
  As he studied the web site options, Sondra
DeVonne and Chick Grey came up behind him.
There were icons for Peace and Security,
Humanitarian Affairs, Human Rights, and other
feel-good topics. He went to the icon for
Databases to try and find a map of the damn
place. Not only had he never been there, he had
no desire to go. For all their tub-thumping about
peace and rights, they'd left him and his comrades from
Air Force Intelligence in a Vietnamese
prison for over two years.
  There were other reference materials in the
databases. Video records of Security
Council and General Assembbly meetings.
Social indicators. International treaties.
Land mines. Peacekeeping Training Course
database. There was even a site for a glossary of
United Nations Document Symbols, which was itself an
acronym: UNIQUE for UN Info Quest. .
  "I hope Bob Herbert is having better
luck," August said. "There isn't a single map
of the compound." "Maybe publishing it is considered a
security risk," DeVonne suggested. Since
joining Striker, the pretty
African-American had been training for Geo
Intel-geo-graphic intelligence-which, in addition
to planning reconnaissance, was being used more and more
to target smart missiles. "I mean," she said,
"if you posted a detailed blueprint, you could plan
and even run a missile attack without ever leaving
your post."
  "You know, that's the problem with security today,"
Grey said. "You can set up all the fancy
antiterrorist protection you want, they can still get
through the old-fashioned way. A jerk with a meal
knife or a hat pin can still grab a flight
attendant and take over an airplane."
  "That doesn't mean you have to make it easy,"
DeVonne said. "No," Grey agreed. "But
don't kid yourself that any of it's really going to work.
Terrorists will still get anywhere they want to go, just as
a determined assassin can still get to a world leader."
The phone beeped, and the desk sergeant answered the
call. It was for August. The colonel hurried
over. If and when they left this room, the squad would
instantly switch to the secure, mobile
TAC-SAT phone. While they were here, they still used
the secure base lines. "Colonel August
here," he said.
  "Brett, it's Mike." In public, the
officers observed
  formal protocol. In private conversation, they were
two men who had known each other since childhood.
"You've got a go."
  "A go is understood," August replied. He
glanced over at his team. They were already beginning
to gather their gear. "I'll give you the mission
profile when you arrive," Rodgers said. "See you
in thirty minutes," August replied, then hung
up. Less than three minutes later, the Striker
squad was buckling themselves into the helicopter seats
for the ride to Andrews. As the noisy chopper rose
into the night and arced to the northeast, Colonel
August was puzzled by something Rodgers had said.
Typically, mission parameters were downloaded to the
aircraft via secure ground-to-air modem.
It saved time and allowed the process to continue even
after the team was airborne. Rodgers had said he was
going to give them the mission parameters when they
arrived. If that meant what he thought it meant, then
this was going to be a more interesting and unusual evening
than he had expected.
  New Fork, New York Saturday, 10:08
P dism.
  When the violinists had first arrived in the
Security Council chambers, they assembled behind the
horseshoe-shaped table on the main floor. Their
musical director, Ms. Dom, had just arrived.
The twenty-six-year-old had given a recital in
Washington the night before and had flown in that day.
While Ms. Dorn reviewed the score,
Harleigh Hood stood by the curtains in. front
of one of the windows. She peeked outside at the
darkening river and smiled at the jiggling lights
reflected on the surface. The bright, colorful
spots reminded her of musical notes, and she
found herself wondering why sheet music was never printed
in color--a different color for each octave.
  Harleigh had just released the edge of the curtain when
they heard pops in the hallway. Moments later, the
double doors on the north side of the chamber slammed
opera and the masked men ran in. Neither the
delegates nor their guests moved, and the young
musicians remained where they were, in two tight
rows. Only Ms. Dom moved, protectively
positioning herself between the children and the intruders. The masked
men were too busy to notice her. They were running
down the sides of the chamber, surrounding the
  delegates. None of the intruders said
anything until one of the men grabbed a delegate and
pulled him off to the side. The intruder spoke to the
man quietly, as though he were afraid of being
overheard. The delegate, who had been introduced
to the violinists earlier in a receiving line-he was from
Sweden, though she forgot his name-then told the group that
no one would be harmed as long as they stayed quiet and
did exactly as they were told. Harleigh didn't
find him convincing. His collar was already sweaty, and the
whole time his eyes were moving all over the place like
he was looking for a place to run.
  The intruder resumed talking to the delegate.
They sat down at the horseshoe-shaped table. The
delegate was handed paper and a pencil. Two of the
intruders checked the windows, opened the doors to see
what was behind them, then took up other positions. When
one of them had been standing beside her window, practically
at her shoulder, Harleigh had had to fight the urge
to say something. She'd wanted to ask this person what
he was doing. Her father had always told her that a
reasonable question, reasonably asked, rarely
provoked an angry response.
  But Harleigh could smell the tartness of the
gunpowder-or whatever the smell was-wafting from the
man's gun. And she thought she saw blood
spots on his glove. Fear froze her throat and
loosened her insides. Her legs really did go
weak, though at the thighs, not the knees. She
didn't say anything and then got angry at herself for
having been afraid. Talking could have gotten her
shot, but it also might have made the intruders
sympathetic toward her. Or maybe they would have
made her a spokesperson or a group leader or
something
  that would have taken her mind off her fear. And what
if they all got shot later? Not necessarily
by these people but by whoever came to save them. Her dying thought
would be that she should have said something before. As she watched
him go, she almost said something again, but her mouth wouldn't
let her.
  Shortly thereafter one of the men-again speaking very
quietly, with an accent that sounded Australian--
began collecting people around the table. The children were first.
He told them to leave their instruments where they were,
on the floor, and come over. Harleigh's violin
case was already open, and she took the time to lay the
instrument inside. It wasn't a small, belated
act of defiance. She wasn't even testing the man
to see what she could get away with. Her parents had
given the violin to her, and she wasn't going
to let anything happen to it. Fortunately, the man
either didn't notice or decided to let it go.
  As Harleigh sat at the circular table, she
felt very exposed. She'd liked it better by the
drapes, in the corner. The fear, which had been
liquid, began to solidify. Harleigh began
trembling as she sat there and was almost glad when one
of the girls beside her began to shake. Poor Laura
Sabia. Laura was her best friend, but she was a
skittish girl to begin with. She looked like she
wanted to scream.
  Harleigh touched her hand and caught her eye and
smiled at her. It's going to be okay, her smile
said. The girl didn't respond to that. She did
respond when the masked man began walking toward
them. He didn't have to say a thing, didn't even have
to walk all the way over. Just coming over scared her
to silence. Harleigh patted the girl's fingers and then
withdrew
  her hand. She folded her hands in front of her.
Harleigh drew a deep breath through her nose and
stopped herself from trembling. A girl across the table
saw her and did likewise. After a moment, the
girl smiled. Harlei.gh smiled back. She
discovered that fear was like. being cold. If you
relaxed, it wasn't as bad. The cavernous room
became quiet. There was a feeling of tense
resignation at the table, an awareness that the quiet was
thin and could be broken at any moment. Inside the
table, the diplomats seemed a little more restless than
the musicians, probably because they were the most
vulnerable.. The intruders seemed very angry about
somebody not being there, but Harleigh didn't know who.
Perhaps the secretary-general, who had been late.
Ms. Dom was sitting at the head of the table. She
made eye contact with each of her violinists, making
sure they were all right. Each girl responded in
turn with a little nod. It was all bravery, Harleigh
knew; no one was really okay. But in the absence of
anything else, the sense of we're all in this together was
something to hold onto.
  Harleigh thought she heard footsteps outside the
door. Security people were bound to show up. She looked
around for places to hide if something did happen, if
people began shooting. Behind the horseshoe table looked like
the safest spot. She could run over, slide across,
and be on the other side in a matter of moments. She
lifted her knees very slowly against the bottom of this
table, like she did to her desk at school when she was
bored--make it seem to float. The table
rose slightly, which meant it wasn't bolted to the
floor. They could turn it over and duck behind it if
they had to.
  As Harleigh thought about defending themselves, she
experienced a flash of terror. She wondered if this
might have something to do with her father and Op-Center. He
had never talked about work at home, not even when he
and her mother had argued. Could it be that Op-Center had
wronged these people in some way? She had learned in
civics class that except for Israel, the
United States was the largest target of terrorism
in the world. The violinists were the only Americans
here. were they after her? What if they didn't know her
father had resigned? What if they wanted to control
her to control him?
  The flesh of her neck and shoulders grew warm.
Harleigh began to perspire along her sides. The
gown that had felt so new, so elegant, clung
to her like a bathing suit. This isn't happening, she
thought. It was the kind of thing you saw on the news
happening to other people. There were supposed to be
safeguards here, weren't there? Metal
detectors, guards at the doors, security
cameras.
  Suddenly, the man who'd been talking
to the delegate from Sweden called the Australian
man over. After a short discussion, the Australian
man grabbed the delegate by the collar, hoisted him
up and, at gunpoint, walked him up the stairs
toward the door. Harleigh wished she had her violin
to hug close. She wished she could be held by her
mother. Her mom was probably frantic-unless she was
trying to be Ms. Calm to other frantic mothers.
She probably was. That had to be where Harleigh
got it from. Then she thought of her father. When
Harleigh's mother had taken her and Alexander to visit
their grandparents and figure out their future, her father
decided to give up his career rather
  than lose them. She wondered if he'd be able
to look at this as another crisis and think calmly,
even though his daughter was involved.
  The Australian man returned. After exchanging
a few rough words with the delegate, he took the
paper from him and shoved the man along the stairs.
Harleigh assumed that their captors had just given
someone a list of demands. She no longer thought that she
might be the target. She felt her neck cool.
They were going to get through this.
  The Swedish delegate was seated with the other
delegates, back on the floor with his
hands on his head. Harleigh assumed it was time
to wait. That would be all right. Her father had once said
that as long as people were talking, they weren't shooting. She
hoped so. She decided not to think about it. Instead,
quietly, very quietly, she did what she came
here for.
  She hummed "A Song of Peace."
  Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland
Saturday, 10:09 p.m. After hanging up with
Colonel August, Mike Rodgers looked at
the clock on his computer screen. The LongRanger
would be at Andrews in about twenty-five minutes.
The C-130 would be ready to go by then. Bob
Herbert looked over at the general. The
intelligence chief scowled. "Mike? Are you
listening?" "Yes," Rodgers said. "You've got a
team working on Mala Chatter ee's past to see who
might want to humiliate the new
secretary-general. Possibly fellow Hindus
who oppose her public stand on behalf of women's
rights. You're also checking the whereabouts of the people Paul
helped to stop in Russia and Spain, in case this
is about him."
  "Right," Herbert said.
  Rodgers nodded and rose slowly; the
damn bandages were constricting. "Bob, I'm going
to need you to run the show here for a while."
  Herbert seemed surprised. "Why? Aren't you
feeling okay?" "I'm feeling fine," Rodgers
said. "I'll be going to New York with Striker.
I'm also going to need a base of operations once we
get there. Something near the United Nations that could also
serve as a staging area.
  The CIA must have a shell in that neighborhood."
"There's one right across the street, I believe,"
Herbert said. "Eastern tower of the twin
skyscrapers, UN Plaza. The Doyle
Shipping Agency, I think it's called. They
keep an eye on the comings and goings of spooks
pretending to be diplomats, probably gather
ELINT as well." "Can you get us in?"
  "Probably." Herbert's mouth twisted
unhappily. He glanced across the table at Lowell
Coffey.
  Rodgers caught the look. "What's wrong?"
he asked. "Mike," Herbert said, "we're on
pretty shaky ground as far as Striker is
concerned."
  "Shaky in what way?" Rodgers asked.
  Herbert raised and lowered a shoulder.
"In a lot of ways-was
  "Spell them out. Morally? Legally?
Logistically?" "All of the above," Herbert said.
  "Maybe I'm being a little naive here,"
Rodgers said, "but what I see is a strike force
with extensive antiterrorist training moving
into position to deal with terrorists. Where's the moral,
legal, or logistical shakiness?"
  Attorney Coffey spoke up. "For one thing,
Mike, we haven't been asked to help the United
Nations with this situation. That in itself weighs pretty
heavily against you."
  "Granted," Rodgers said. "Hopefully, I
can arrange that when I get there, especially if the
terrorists start sending bodies out. Darrell
McCaskey's communicating with Chatterjee's
security staff through Interpol--"
  "At a very low level," Herbert reminded him.
"The UN security commander isn't going to put a
lot of stock
  in what an aide tells him secondhand through an
Interpol guy in Madrid."
  "We don't know that," Rodgers said. "Hell,
we don't know anything about the commander, do we?" "My
staff is reviewing his file," Herbert
said. "He's not someone we've had any dealings with."
"Regardless," Rodgers said. "He's in a
situation where he's probably going to have to look
outside for help. For real, solid, immediate help,
wherever it's coming from."
  "But Mike, that's not the only problem," Coffey
said. Rodgers looked down at the computer clock.
The chopper would be here in less than twenty
minutes. He didn't have time for this. "Countries that
have no interest in the outcome of this situation will
absolutely not want a covert team of elite,
United States forces moving through the Secretariat
building."
  "Since when are we worried about hurting the
feelings of Iraqis and the French?" Rodgers
asked.
  "It isn't a matter of feelings," Coffey
pointed out. "It's a question of international law."
  "Christ, Lowell--the terrorists broke that
law!" Rodgers said. "That doesn't mean we can,
too," Coffey said. "Even if we're willing
to break international law, every Striker action to date
has been executed according to Op-Center's
charter-U.s. law. Specifically, we've
gotten the permission of the Congressional
Intelligence Oversight Committee-
  "I'm not worried about a goddamn
court-martial, Lowell," Rodgers interrupted
sharply.
  "This isn't about personal culpability,"
Coffey said. "It's about Op-Center's
survival."
  "I agree," Rodgers said. "Its about our
survival as an effective, counterterrorist
force-was
  "No," Coffey said, "as a division of the
United States government. We were chartered to act,
and I quote, "when the threat to federal institutions
or any constituents thereof, or to American lives
in the service of those institutions, is clearcut and
immediate." I don't see that here. What I do see
is that if you go in, whether you succeed or fail is
irrelevant."
  "Not to Paul and the other parents."
  "This isn't about them!" Coffey snapped. "It's
about the larger picture. The American public will
applaud. Hell, I'll applaud. But France
or Iraq or some member nation will pressure the
administration to take us to task for overstepping our
mandate." "Especially if the terrorists
turn out to be foreigners and any of them are killed,"
Herbert said. "American soldiers effectively
executing foreign nationals on international
territory with every media outlet in the world covering the
event will destroy us." "And they'll do it with
American law, not international law," Coffey
added. "Congress will have no choice but to pull everyone
in this room in front of the CIOC. Never mind our
careers. If they vote to dissolve Op-Center or
even just Striker, how many future lives will be
lost? How many battles won't we be able to fight
that have a direct influence on the security of the
United States?" "I can't believe this,"
Rodgers said. "We're talking about children being held
hostage!"
  "Unfortunately," Herbert said, "as angry as
it makes
  us all, the threat to the delegates and to Paul's
daughter doesn't fall under those parameters.
Saving her is a luxury we may not be able
to afford."
  "A luxury?" Rodgers said. "Jesus,
Bob, you're talking like a goddamned Camp
Fire girl!"
  Herbert glared at Rodgers. "That was
my late wife. She was the Camp Fire girl."
  Rodgers looked at Herbert and then looked
down. The ventilators in the ceiling sounded very loud.
  "Since the subject has been raised,"
Herbert continued, "my wife was also a victim of
terrorists. I know what you're feeling, Mike.
The frustration. I know what Paul and Sharon are
feeling. And I also know that Lowell is right. The
place for Op-Center in this fight is on, the
sidelines."
  "Doing nothing."
  "Surveillance, tactical assistance, moral
support-if we can contribute those, they aren't
nothing," Herbert said. was "They also serve who
only stand and wait," was Rodgers said solemnly.
  "Sometimes, yes." Herbert patted the arms of his
wheelchair. "Otherwise, you could end up sitting and
waiting. Or worse." Rodgers glanced at his
watch. Lowell Coffey had made valid legal
points. And Rodgers's stumble about Yvonne
Herbert had given her husband the right to sermonize.
But that didn't make either man right.
  "I've got about fifteen minutes to meet the
plane," Rodgers said quietly. "Bob, I've
already put you in charge. If you want to stop
me, you can." He looked at Liz Gordon.
"Liz, you can have me declared mentally unfit, suffering
from post-traumatic stress disorder,
  whatever the hell you want. If you do, I won't
fight either of you. But barring that, I won't stand and
wait. I can't. Not while a band of murderers is
holding kids hostage."
  Herbert shook his head slowly. "This one's not that
black and white, Mike."
  "That's no longer the issue," Rodgers said
to him. "Are you going to stop me?"
  Herbert stopped shaking his head. "No," he said.
"I'm not." "May I ask why?" Coffey asked
indignantly. Herbert sighed. "Yeah. In the
CIA, we used to call it respect."
  Coffey made a face.
  "If a superior wanted to bend the rules, you
bent them," Herbert went on. "All you could do was
try not to bend "em so far that they came around and bit
you in the ass."
  Coffey sat back. "I expect that from the
Cosa Nostra, not the lawful government of the
United States," he said unhappily. "If we
were all so damn virtuous, lawful government
wouldn't be necessary," Herbert said.
  Rodgers looked at Liz. She was not happy
either. "Well?" Rodgers said.
  "Well what?" Liz said. "I'm not a brick
in Bob's wall of silence, but I'm not going to stop
you. Right now, you're being headstrong, impatient, and
you're probably acting out, looking to hit someone
hard for what your captors did in the Bekaa
Valley. But unfit? From a psychological
standpoint, not a legal one, I can't say you're
unfit."
  Rodgers looked back at Herbert. "Bob, will
you try to get me into the CIA shell?"
  Herbert nodded.
  Rodgers looked at Coffey. "Lowell, will you
go to the CIOC? See if they'll call an
emergency meeting?" Coffey's thin mouth was.
tight, and his polished fingernails were tapping the table.
But above all, the attorney was a professional.
He hooked back his sleeve and looked at his
watch.
  "I'll call Senator Warren on his mobile
phone," Coffey said. "He's our most
sympathetic ear over there. But those people are tough enough
to reach on a weekday. On a weekend, at
night-was "I understand," Rodgers said.
"Thanks. You, too, Bob."
  "Sure thing," Herbert replied.
  Coffey was already looking up the phone number on
his electronic pocket directory as Rodgers
looked over at Matt Stoll and Ann Farris.
The technical genius was staring intently at his
folded hands, and the press liaison was quiet, her
expression noncommittal. He thought he might
get her approval since he was trying to help
Paul Hood, but he wasn't going to ask. He
turned toward the door.
  "Mike?" Herbert said.
  Rodgers looked back at him. "Yes?"
  "Whatever you need, you know you've got our
support back here," Herbert said.
  "I know."
  "Just try not to destroy the Secretariat
Building, okay?" Herbert said. "And one more thing."
"What's that?" Rodgers asked. "I don't want
to find myself running this goddamned
  place," Herbert said with the hint of a smile. "So
make sure you get your headstrong, impatient,
acting-out self back here." "I'll try,"
Rodgers said, smiling slightly himself as he opened
the door.
  It wasn't exactly the endorsement Rodgers
had hoped for but, as he hurried through the cubicles
toward the elevator, at least he didn't feel like
Gary Cooper in High Noon-alone. And right now,
that was something.
  New York, New York Saturday,
10:11 r.m
  The short-lived but legendary Office of
Strategic Services was formed in June of
1942. Under the leadership of World War I hero
William Joseph "Wild Bill" Donovan,
the OSS was responsible for collecting military
intelligence. After the war, in 1946, President
Truman established the Central Intelligence
Group, which was chartered to gather foreign intelligence
pertaining to national security. A year later, the
National Security Act renamed the CIG the
Central Intelligence Agency. The act also
broadened the scope of the CIA charter to allow it
to conduct counterintelligence activities.
  Thirty-two-year-old Annabelle "Ani"
Hampton had always enjoyed being a spy. There were so
many mental and emotional levels to it, so many
sensations. There was danger and there was reward
proportionate to the danger. There was a
sense of being invisible or, if you were caught, of being
more naked than naked. There was a feeling of having
power over others, of risking punishment and oath. There
was also a great deal of planning involved, of
positioning yourself just so, of patience, of catching someone
in the right frame of mind, of seducing emotionally and
sometimes physically.
  It was, in fact, a lot like sex only
better, she thought. In spying, if you grew tired of
someone you could have them killed. Not that she ever had. Not
yet, anyway.
  Ani had enjoyed being a spy because she'd always been
a loner. Other children had no curiosity. She did.
As a child, she liked to find out where squirrels made
their homes or watch birds as they laid their eggs
or, depending on her mood, help wild rabbits
escape from red foxes or help red foxes snare
the hares. She liked to eavesdrop on her father's
pinochle games or on her grandmother's teas or on
her older brother's dates. She even made a
journal of the news she picked up while spying on
her family. Which neighbor was "a prick." Which
aunt was "a bitch on wheels." Which mother-in-law
"should learn to keep her mouth shut." Ani's mother
once found the journal and took it away,
but that was all right. Ani had been smart enough to keep a
duplicate book.
  Ani's parents, Also and Ginny, had owned a
women's clothing store in Roanoke, Virginia.
Ani used to work at Hampton's Fashions after
school and on weekends. Whenever possible, she would
study everything about the people who came in to browse. She
attempted to hear what they were saying, tried to guess
what they were going to look at based on how they were
dressed or how well they spoke. And then she
moved in to make the sale. If she'd been careful
and smart, she got it. Usually, she was.
  The spying ended when her parents's store went
bankrupt, driven out of business by larger discount
chains. Her parents were forced to go to work for one of those
chains. But Ani's fascination with understanding and then
carefully manipulating people did not die. She won
  a full scholarship to Georgetown University
in Washington. She majored in political science
and minored in Asian affairs since, at the time, it
looked like Japan and the Pacific Rim were going
to be the hot spots of the twenty-first century. Though
her parents" own hopes had died, Ani never saw
them prouder than when she graduated from college
summa cum laude. That was when she set
herself a goal to make them prouder still. Ani
resolved that she would not only become a CIA
agent, but before she was forty years old, she would be
running the agency. .
  Upon graduating, the slender,
five-foot-ten-inch-tall blonde applied to the
CIA. She was hired-partly because of her exemplary
academic record and partly, she later learned,
because equal opportunity guidelines found the
notoriously chauvinistic agency short on women.
The reasons didn't matter then. Ani was in.
Officially, she served as a visa consultant in a
succession of U.s. embassies in Asia.
Unofficially, she used her downtime to develop
contacts in the government and military. Dissatisfied
officials and officers. Men and women who were hurt
by the Asian financial collapse of the
mid-1990's. People who might be persuaded
to provide information for money.
  Ani was singularly effective as a CIA
recruiter. Ironically, she found that her greatest
asset was not her knowledge of Asian culture or
government. It wasn't even the fact that she'd seen
her parents lose their slice of the American Dream
and knew how to talk to people who felt
disconnected. Her greatest asset was her ability
to remain emotionally uninvolved with her recruits.
There had been times when it was necessary to sacrifice people for
information, and she had not hesitated to do
  so. She understood from school, from life, from reading
history, that people were the coin of governments and armies and
that you couldn't be afraid to spend them. In a way, it
was no different from telling women they'd looked good in
coats or slacks or blouses when she knew they
didn't. The store needed their money, and she was
determined to get it.
  Unfortunately, Ani found that talent and drive
weren't enough. When she accomplished what she'd been
sent abroad to do, the young woman wasn't given a
promotion or higher security clearance. Now the
antifemale bias mattered: The good jobs went
to her male colleagues. Ani was sent to Seoul
to collect data submitted by the contacts she'd
established. Most of it was transmitted
electronically, and she was not even involved in
interpreting what came in. That was done by ELINT
teams back at Company headquarters. After six
months of sitting at a computer, working as an intel
shuffler, she asked to be transferred to Washington.
Instead, she was transferred to New
York. As an intel shuffler. Because of her overseas
experience, Ani had been sent to work at the Doyle
Shipping Agency. The CIA front operated from the
shell office on the fourth floor of 866 United
Nations Plaza. Their mission was to spy on key
United Nations officials. The DSA consisted of a
small reception area with a secretary-who was off
today, since it was Saturday-an office for field
office director David Battat, and another
office for Ani. There was also a small office for the
two floaters who were shared by this office and another in
the financial district. The floaters trailed
diplomats who were suspected of trying to meet with
spies or prospective spies in this country. The
office also stocked arms, from guns to C-4, which could
  be used by the floaters or carried to agents
abroad in diplomatic pouches. Ani's small,
East River-view office was really the heart of the
operation. It was filled with fake DSA files,
books of shipping schedules and tax regulations,
along with a computer linked to high-tech equipment
locked in a broom closet at the end of the small
corridor.
  Ani's job was to monitor the activities of
key United Nations personnel. She
did this by using bugs developed by the CIA'S
research and sciences group and being field-tested in the
UN for the first time-"to work the bugs out," as Battat
had put it. The bugs were literally mechanical
bugs the size of a large beetle. Made of
titanium and extremely lightweight
piezoelectric ceramics-materials that caused very
little drain on the batteries, allowing them to run for
years without being recalled-the bugs are
electronically attuned to the voice of a subject.
After being set loose inside a building, they
required no further maintenance. The fleet,
six-legged devices could reach any point in the
building within twenty minutes and followed their
individual targets by moving behind walls and through air
ducts; hooklike feet allowed them to travel
vertically along most surfaces. The voices were
transmitted from the bugs to the receiver attachment
to Ani's computer, which was nicknamed "the hive."
Ani typically listened to the broadcast with
headphones to keep out extraneous office and street
noises. .
  Seven mobile bugs inside the United Nations
complex enabled the CIA to eavesdrop on
influential ambassadors as well as on
the secretary-general. Because all the bugs operated
on the same very narrow audio frequency, And could
only access one at a time. She was able to shuttle
  between them using the computer. The bugs also contained
sound generators that emitted an ultrasonic ping
once every few seconds. The pulse was designed
to frighten potential predators. At two,
million dollars apiece, the CIA did not
want the bugs to be eaten by hungry bats or other
insect eaters.
  Though Ani deeply resented the transfer and the
grant work she was doing, there were three bright spots.
First, though the work tended to be uneventful, she was
spying as clandestinely as possible. The voyeur in
her enjoyed that. Second, her superior spent most
of his time in Washington or at the CIA office at
the American embassy in Moscow-which was where he was
now-so she effectively ran this small office. And
finally, being held back by the "Chauvinists
Institute of America" had reminded her that whether
you're selling women's clothes or selling information,
you have to find ways of making yourself happy. Since coming
to New York, she had developed an appreciation
for art and music, for fine restaurants and elegant
clothes, for good living and pampering herself.
For the first time in her life, she had been setting
goals that had nothing to do with her career or making
someone proud. It felt good. Very good.
  Ani listened closely to the meeting.
Disappointments aside, this situation required very
close monitoring. And though the bugged conversation was
being recorded, her superior would want a concise but
comprehensive summary of what was being said. It was
interesting to know people only from their voices. Ani had
come to listen for inflection, pauses, speed much more
than she did in face-to-face conversation. Finding
out about the different people had been
  fun, especially Mala Chatterjee, who was one
of only two women on Ani's roster. More than
half of Ani's time was spent with the
secretary-general. The New Delhi native was
the forty-three-year- old daughter of Sujit
Chatterjee, one of the most successful motion
picture producers in India. An attorney
who had achieved dazzling victories in the cause
of human rights;, Mala Chatterjee had worked as a
consultant with the Centre for International
Peacebuilding in London before accepting a post as
deputy special representative of the
secretary-general on human rights in
Geneva. She moved to New York in 1997
to serve as undersecretary-general for Humanitarian
Affairs. Her appointment as secretary-general was
motivated as much by politics and a TV'-FRIENDLY
appearance as by her credentials. It came at a time
when nuclear tensions between India and Pakistan were
rising. The Indians were so proud of the appointment that
even when the freshly appointed Ms. Chatterjee
went to Islamabad and made overtures
to Pakistan regarding disarmament, Indians
supported her. This, despite a front-page
editorial in Pakistan's English-language
newspaper, Dawn, which chided New Delhi for
"blinking cravenly in the face of annihilation."
  Secretary-General Chatterjee's brief
Uaited Nations career had been one of confronting
problems personally, head-on, relying on her
intelligence and charismatic personality to defuse
situations. That was what made this moment so exciting.
Ani was not unaware of the lives at stake or
unmoved by their plight. But over the past few
months, she'd gotten to feel as though Chatterjee
was a close friend and respected colleague. Ani was
extremely curious to see how the
secretary-general was going to handle this. As
soon as the CIA had been
  alerted to the hostage situation, Ani ascertained
that none of the delegates with bugs had been present
in the Security Council chambers.
  Chatterjee was meeting with Deputy
Secretary-General Takahara of Japan, two
undersecretary-generals, and her security chief in the
large conference room off her private office. The
deputy secretary-general of administration and head
of personnel was also present. He and his staff were
on the phones, updating governments whose delegates
were among the hostages. Chatterjee's aide, Enzo
Donati, was there as well.
  There had been very little talk about actually paying the
ransom. Even if the sum could be collected, which was
doubtful, the secretary-general would be powerless
to deliver it. In 1973, the United Nations had
established a policy for dealing with ransom demands
if UN personnel were kidnapped. The Security
Council had proposed, and the General Assembly
had agreed by the requisite two-thirds vote, that
in the event of an abduction, the affected nation or
nations would be responsible for pursuing their own national
policy. The United Nations would become involved
only as negotiators.
  So far, only one of the nations involved, France,
had agreed to contribute to the ransom demand. The
other countries either couldn't commit without formal
authorization or had a policy of not negotiating with
terrorists. The United States, whose delegate,
Flora Meriwether, was among the hostages,
refused to pay the ransom but agreed to participate
if a dialogue were opened with the terrorists.
Chatterjee and her staff agreed to check in again with the
affected nations when the deadline had passed. The immediate
problem that needed a quick resolution
  was who would be responsible for making decisions in the
crisis. If only tourists were being held, then the
Military Staff Committee of Colonel Rick
Mott would have had sole jurisdiction. But that
wasn't the case. According to the charter, decisions
affecting the Security Council could only be made
by the Security Council or the General
Assembly. Since Security Council
President Stanislaw Zintel of Poland was
among the hostages, and since the General
Assembly could not be convened, Chatterjee decided
that as the leader of the General Assembly, the
secretary-general should decide what moves and
initiatives should be taken. Ani
suspected that was the first time in the history of the
United Nations that an action had not been decided
by vote. And it had taken a woman to do it, of
course.
  That decided, Mott advised the officials that
most of the UN police had been pulled from the
perimeter and gathered around the Security Council
chamber. He briefed them about the possibility of
staging an assault by UN forces or with the
NYPD'S Emergency Service Unit, which had
volunteered personnel.
  "We can't work out any kind of military
response plan until we have a better idea about
what's going on in there," Mott said. "I've got
two officers listening in through the double doors in the
Trusteeship Council chambers. Unfortunately,
the terrorists set up motion detectors in the
corridors that access the media, so we can't go up
there. They've also disabled the security cameras in the
council chambers. Efforts are being made to look
into the chambers using wire-thin fiber-optic lenses.
We're going to use manual drills to punch two
small holes through the floor in closets beneath the
room. Unfortunately, we won't have visuals
until well past the
  ninety-minute deadline. We've used an
uplink to send copies of the surveillance camera
videos of the killers to Interpol offices in
London, Paris, Madrid, and Bonn, as well
as to law-enforcement agencies in Japan, Moscow,
and Mexico City. We're hoping that something about the
attack may be similar to what agents there may have
seen before."
  "The question is, will they really execute one of the
hostages?" asked Secretary-General
Chatterjee.
  "I believe they will," Mott said.
  "Based on what intelligence?" someone asked.
Ani didn't recognize his voice or his accent.
  "My own intelligence," Mott replied.
Based on the way he said "intelligence," Ani
could picture him pointing to his own head in
frustration. "The terrorists have nothing to lose
by killing again."
  "Then what are our options prior to the deadline?"
the secretary-general asked.
  "Militarily?" Mott asked. "My people are
willing to go in without visuals, if they have to."
  "Is your team ready for an operation like that?" the
secretary-general asked.
  Ani could have answered that question. The Military
Staff strike force was not ready for action. They'd
never been field-tested and they were understaffed. If one
or two key people went down, there were no reserves.
The problem was that along with the rest of the UN
secretariat staff, the MS unit had been cut
by 25 percent over the past few years. Moreover,
the ablest people went into the private sector, such as
corporate security and law enforcement, where pay
and the opportunities for promotion were better.
"We're prepared to go in and end the standoff," Mott
  said. "But I have to be honest, ma'am. If we
enter the chambers with the intention of removing the
terrorists, there is a very strong likelihoWill of
losses not just of my team members, but among
panicked delegates and children."
  "We can't risk that," Secretary-General
Chatterjee said. "Our chances would certainly be
better if we waited for reconnaissance," Mott
admitted.
  "What about using tear gas against the terrorists?"
asked Deputy Secretary-General Takahara.
  "The Security Council is a very large
room," Mott said. "Because of that, it would take at
least seventy seconds to deliver gas through
the ventilation system, slightly less time by opening the
doors and hurling in grenades. Either way, that would
give the terrorists time to put on gas masks, if
they have them, to shoot out the two windows to dilute the
effectiveness of the gas, to kill the hostages when they
realize what's happening, or to move to another
locale with the hostages as shields. If they
possess poison gas as they've said, my guess
is " that they probably do have masks." "They're
going to kill all the hostages anyway," said one
of the undersecretaries-general. Ani believed that it
might be Fernando Campos of Portugal, one of the
few militants who had the secretary-general's
tar. "At least if we go in now, we may be able
to save some of them."
  There was some loud murmuring around the table.
Secretary-General Chatterjee quieted it and
returned the floor to Mott. "My recommendation,
again, is that we wait until we have some images from
the chamber," Mott concluded.
  "Just so we know where the enemy and the hostages are.
"The additional time as well as your pictures will be
bought with the lives of delegates," said the man Ani
thought was Undersecretary-General Campos. "I
say we go in and end this matter."
  Chatterjee tabled the military side of the
discussion and asked if Mott had any other ideas.
The colonel said that thought had also been given
to shutting off the air and electricity in the
Security Council chambers or of turning up the
air-conditioning to make the terrorists uncomfortable.
But he and the Military Staff Committee had
decided that those actions would be more provocative than
useful. He said that as yet they hadn't come up with
anything else. There was a short silence. Ani
noted that the final half-hour mark had come and gone.
She had a strong feeling what Chatterjee was going
to do: just what she always did.
  "Although I'm sympathetic to what Colonel
Mott and Undersecretary-General Campos have
suggested, we cannot give the terrorists what they
want," Chatterjee said at last, her husky
voice lower than usual. "But a serious gesture
must be made to acknowledge their status."
  "Their status?" Colonel Mott asked.
"Yes," Chatterjee said. "Such as what,
ma'am?" Mott demanded. "They're ruthless
killers-was "Colonel, this is not the time to express
our indignation," Chatterjee said. "Since we cannot
give the terrorists what they want, we
must offer them what we have."
  "Which is?" Mott asked. "Our humility."
  "Good Christ," Mott muttered.
  "This is not your former SEAL'S command,"
Chatterjee said sternly. "We shall "seek a
solution by negotiation, enquiry, mediation,
conciliation, arbitration, judicial settlement-" was
"I know the charter, ma'am," Mott said. "But it
wasn't written for this kind of situation."
  "Then we will adapt it,", she said. "The sentiment
is correct. We must acknowledge that these people have the
power to kill or release our delegates and children.
Perhaps bowing to them will gain us time and trust."
  "It certainly won't gain us their respect,"
Mott said. "I disagree, Colonel Mott,"
Takahara said. "Submission has been known
to placate terrorists. But I am curious,
Madam Secretary-General. How do you intend
to bow?"
  Takahara always surprised Ani. Throughout
history, Japanese leaders had never been comfortable
with conciliation-unless they were pretending to want peace
while preparing for war. Takahara was not like that. He
was a genuinely pacifistic man. "I'll go to the
terrorists," Chatterjee said. "I'll
express our interest in helping them and request time
to arrange an opportunity for them to address their
requests directly to the nations involved."
  "You're inviting a siege, was Mott declared.
"I prefer that to a bloodbath," said Chatterjee.
"Besides, we must secure one thing at a time. If
we can achieve a postponement of the deadline, perhaps we
will be able to find the means to defuse the situation."
  "May I remind you," said Takahara, "the
killers in dicated that no communication would be
acknowledged other than word that the money and
transportation were theirs."
  "It doesn't matter if they acknowledge,"
Chatterjee said. "Only that they listen."
  "Oh, they'll acknowledge, all right," Mott
said. "With gunfire. These monsters shot their way
into the Security Council. They've got nothing
to lose by shooting a few people more."
  "Gentlemen," said Chatterjee, "we can't pay
the ransom, and I will not permit an attack on the
council chamber." It was obvious to Ani that the
secretary-general was growing frustrated. "We are
supposed to be the finest diplomats in the world and,
at present, we have no options other than
diplomacy. Colonel Mott, will you
accompany me to the Security Council?"
  "Of course," the officer said.
  He sounded relieved. Chatterjee was smart going
out with a soldier at her side. Speak softly, and
carry a big stick. Ani heard coughs and the sound of
chairs being moved. She glanced at her computer
clock. The secretary-general had a little over
seven minutes until the deadline. That was just enough time
to get to the Security Council chamber. The bug
would arrive shortly thereafter. Ani removed her
headphones and turned to the phone to call David
Battat. The line was secure, run through an
advanced TACSAT 5 unit inside the desk.
  The phone beeped as she reached for it. She picked
up the receiver. It was Battat.
  "You're there," Battat said.
  "I'm here," Ani said. "Canceled my hot
date and came over as soon as this broke."
  "Good girl," the forty-two-year-old Atlanta
native said. Ani's fingers went white around the
phone. Battat wasn't as bad as some of the others,
and she didn't think he meant to be demeaning. It was
just something he'd gotten used to in the
spy-club-for-men. "The attack just broke on the
news here," Battat said. "God, I
wish I were there. What's happening?"
  The young woman told her superior what
Secretary-General Chatterjee was planning. After
listening to the plan, Battat sighed. "The
terrorists are gonna waste the Swede," he said.
"Maybe not," Ani replied. "Chatterjee is
pretty good at this."
  "Diplomacy was invented to powder tyrants'
behinds, and I've never seen it work for very long,"
Battat said. "Which is one of the reasons I'm
calling. A former Company man named Bob Herbert
phoned about twenty minutes ago. He's with the
National Crisis: Management Center and needs a
place for his SWAT team to crash. If they get a
go-ahead from above, they may make a move to get the
kids out. The boys up here have no problem with them
using DSA as long as they keep our noses out of
it. You should expect a General Mike Rodgers,
Colonel Brett August, and party in about ninety
minutes." "Yes sir," she said.
  Ani hung up and waited before returning to her
headphones. The news about the NCMC team was a
surprise, and it took her a moment to process it.
She had been monitoring Secretary-General
Chattedee's conversations for three hours.
No mention had been made of military action by the
United States. She couldn't believe that the
  United States would ever become involved
militarily in an action at the United Nations
compound.
  But if it were true, at least she would be here
to watch it unfold. Maybe she could have a hand in
organizing the attack plan. Under ordinary
circumstances, it was energizing to be at the center of
what the CIA euphemistically called "an
event," especially when there was a "counterevent" in the
offing. But these were not ordinary circumstances.
  Ani looked at the computer monitor. There was a
detailed blueprint of the United Nations along with
icons representing the presence of all the bugs.
She watched the progress of the bug following
Chatterjee. It would catch up to her in less than
a minute. She slipped the headphones back on.
These were not ordinary circumstances because there was a group
of people inside the United Nations-a group depending
on her to monitor everything the secretary-general said
and planned. A group that had nothing to do with the CIA.
The group was led by a man she had met while she was
looking for new recruits in Cambodia. A man
who had been a CIA operative in
Bulgaria and who, like her, had become disenchanted with the
way the Company treated him. A man who had spent
several years making international contacts of his own,
though not to help him gather intelligence. A man who
didn't care about a person's sex or nationality,
only about his or her ability. That was why Ani had
come to the office at seven o'clock. She had not come after
the attack began, as she'd told Battat.
She'd come here because she wanted to be in place before the
attack. She would make sure that if Georgiev
contacted her on his secure phone, she
  would be able to give him any intel he needed. She
was also monitoring the account in Zurich. As soon as
the money was there, she'd disburse it to a dozen other
accounts internationally, then erase the trail.
Investigators would never find it. Georgiev's
success would be her success. And her success would be
her parents' success. With her share of the two
hundred and fifty million dollars, her parents
would finally be able to realize the American Dream.
  The irony was, Battat had actually been
wrong on two counts. Ani Hampton was not a
girl. But even if she were, she would not be what he
had called her: a "good girl."
  She was an exceptional one.
  New York, New York Saturday,
10:29 p.m.
  Mala Chatterjee stood just over five feet,
two inches. She barely reached the chin of the
silver-haired officer who walked slightly behind
her. But the secretary-general's size was not a
true measure of her stature. Her dark eyes were
large and luminous, and her skin was swarthy and smooth.
Her fine black hair was naturally streaked with
white and reached to the middle of the shoulder of her sharply
tailored black business suit. The only
jewelry she wore was a watch and a pair of small
pearl earrings.
  There had been some very vocal dissidents back
home when she was named to this post and opted not to wear a
traditional sari. Even her father was upset. But as
Chatterjee had just said in an interview with
Newsweek, she was here as a representative of
all people and of all faiths, not just her native land and
her fellow Hindus. Fortunately, the disarmament
pact with Pakistan put the sari issue to rest. It
also allayed the very vocal complaints some member
nations had had, that the world body had opted to appoint
. a mediagenic secretary-general rather than an
internationally renowned diplomat.
  Chatterjee hadn't doubted her ability to handle
this
  job. She had tiever encountered any problem that
couldn't be resolved by making the first conciliatory
move. So many conflicts were caused by the need to save
face; remove that element, and the disputes often
solved themselves.
  Mala Chatterjee held tight to that belief as
she and Colonel Mott rode the elevator down
to the second floor. Selected reporters had
been allowed into this section of the building, and she
answered a few questions as she walked toward the
Security Council chamber. "We hope the
matter can be resolved peaceably ... our
priority is the security and preservation of human
life ... we pray for the families of the hostages
and victims to be strong. . . . was
Secretaries-general had said those exact words or
words like those so many times, in so many places around the
world, they had almost become a mantra. Yet they were
very different here. This wasn't a situation where people had-
been fighting and hating and dying for years. The war was
new, and the enemy was very determined. The words came from
her soul, not from memory. Nor were they the only words
that had come to mind. After leaving the
reporters, she and the colonel walked past the
sprawling Golden Rule, a large mosaic based
on the painting by Norman Rockwell. It was a
gift of the United States on the fortieth
anniversary of the United Nations. "As ye would that
men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. was
Chatterjee prayed that that would be possible here.
Representatives of Security Council nations
were gathered to the north of the chambers of the Economic and
Social Council. Between them and the adjoining
  Trusteeship Council chamber were twenty-seven
guards, the entire force that Colonel Mott had
under his command. There was also a team of emergency
medical technicians from the NYU Medical
Center, which was located ten blocks south of the
United Nations, The technicians were all
volunteers.
  Secretary-General Chatterjee and Colonel
Mott neared the Security Council chamber double
doors. They stepped a few yards away. The
colonel removed the radio from the loop in his
belt. It was preset to the correct frequency.
He switched the unit on and handed it to the
secretary-general. Chatterjce's hand was cold as
she took it. ,She looked at her watch.
It was ten-thirty. She'd gone over the words in her
head as she walked here, made them as concise as she
could. This is Secretary-General Chatterjee.
Would it be all right if I came in?
  If the terrorists admitted her, if the deadline
passed without a death, then there would be room for talk.
For negotiation. Perhaps she could convince them to keep
her there in exchange for the children. Chatterjee wasn't
even thinking beyond that, to her own fate. For a
negotiator, the goal was everything, the means
secondary. Truth, deceit, risk, compassion,
coldheartedness, resolve, seductiveness; everything
was coin of the realm. Chatterjee's slender fingers
held the radio tightly as she raised the
mouthpiece toward her lips. She had to make sure
she sounded strong but nonjudgmental. She swallowed
to make sure the words didn't catch. Her voice
had to be clear. She moistened her lips. "This is
Secretary-General Mala Chatterjee," she said
slowly. She'd decided to add her first name
to deformalize the introduction. "Would it be all right
if I came in?" There was nothing but silence on the
radio. The terrorists had said they'd be listening to this
channel; they had to have heard. Chatterjee could swear
she heard Colonel Mott's heart
throbbing in his chest. She could certainly hear her own,
like sandpaper up around her ears.
  A moment later, there was a loud crack from behind the
double doors of the Security Council chamber. It
was followed by screams from deep within the chamber. An
instant after that, the nearest of the two doors opened
outward. The Swede fell out, except for the back of
his head.
  That was on the wall inside the chamber.
  New York, New York Saturday,
10:30 P.m.
  Paul Hood had composed himself and returned to the
cafeteria. He reached it just as representatives
from department of State security police arrived.
Since the parents were all U.s. citizens, the
American ambassador had requested that they be
moved at once to DOS offices on the other side
of First Avenue. The reason given was security, but
Hood suspected that sovereignty was the real
issue. The United States did not want
American citizens interrogated by foreign nationals
about a terrorist attack on international soil.
X. would set a dangerous precedent to allow any
government or representatives thereof to hold
Americans who were not charged with breaking
foreign or international law.
  None of the parents liked the idea of moving from the
building where their children were being held. But they went,
accompanied by Deputy Chief of Security
Bill Mohalley, DOS. Hood made
Mohalley out to be about fifty. From the way he
stood, with his big shoulders back, his manner
clipped and commanding, he had probably come to DOS
via the military. The dark-haired Mohalley
reiterated that their own government could keep them
better protected and better informed. Both
statements were true, though Hood wondered how much the
  government would actually tell them. Armed
terrorists had gotten through American security
systems to reach the UN. If anything happened to the
children, there would be unprecedented lawsuits. As they were
leaving the cafeteria and starting up the central
staircase, the gunshot from the Security Council
chamber echoed through the building.
  Everything stopped. Then there were a few distant
shouts among the otherwise awful silence.
  Mohalley asked everyone to continue quickly up the
stairs. It took a long second before anyone
moved. Some of the parents insisted that they go back to the
correspondents' room to be close to their
children. Mohalley told them that the area had been
closed off by United Nations security personnel
and it wouldn't be possible to get in. Mohalley
urged them to go ahead so he could get them to safety and
find out what had happened. They started moving, though
several of the mothers and a few of the fathers began to weep.
Hood put his arm around Sharon. Even though his own
legs were weak, he helped her up the stairs. There
had only been one shot, so he assumed a hostage
had been killed. Hood had always felt that was the
worst way to die, robbed of everything to help make
someone else's point. A life used as a
bloody, impersonal exclamation point, one's
loves and dreams ended as though they didn't matter.
There was nothing colder to contemplate than that. When
they reached the lobby, Mohalley received a call on
his radio. As he stepped aside to take it, the
parents filed into the spotlit park situated between the
General Assembly Building and 866 United
Nations Plaza. They were met there by two of
Mohalley's aides.
  The call was brief. When it was finished,
Mohalley rejoined the group at the head. As they
filed past, he asked Hood if he could talk
to him for a moment.
  "Of course," Hood said. He felt his mouth
grow very dry. "Was that a hostage?" he asked.
"The gunshot?" "Yes, sir," Mohalley said.
"One of the diplomats." Hood felt sick and
relieved at the same time. His wife had stopped a
few steps away. He motioned for her to go ahead, that
everything was okay. At the moment, okay was a very
relative term.
  "Mr. Hood," Mohalley said, "we did a
quick background check on all the parents, and your
Op-Center record came up-was
  "I've resigned," Hood said.
  "We know," Mohalley told him. "But your
resignation doesn't become effective for another
twelve days. In the meantime," he went on, "we
have a potentially serious problem that you'll be able
to help us with." Hood looked at him. "What kind
of problem?" "I'm not at liberty to say,"
Mohalley told him. Hood hadn't really
expected Mohalley to tell him. Not here. The
State Department was paranoid about security
outside its own offices, though here they had a right
to be. Every diplomat, every consulate was here to help
their country. That included being "on the line," using
everything from eavesdropping to electronics
to listen in on conversations. "I understand," Hood said.
"But it's related to this?" he pressed. "Yes,
sir. Will you follow me?" Mohalley said. It was
less a question than a statement.
  Hood glanced toward the courtyard. "What about
my wife"
  "We'll tell her we needed your help,"
Mohalley informed him. "She'll understand. Please,
sir, this is important."
  Hood looked into the man's steel-gray eyes.
Part of Hood-the part that felt guilty about
Sharon-wanted to tell Mohalley to go to hell.
Lowell Coffey had once said, "The needs of a
state come before the needs of estate." Hood had
gotten out of government for that reason. A delegate
had just been shot, and their daughter was being held by his
killers-killers who had vowed to murder another
person every hour. Hood should be with his wife. Yet
there was also a part of him that didn't want to sit around
and wait for others to act. If there was something Hood
could do to help Harleigh, or if he could collect
intel for Rodgers and Striker, he wanted to be in
there doing it. He hoped Sharon would understand.
  "All right," Hood said to the security head. The
men turned and walked briskly toward the
courtyard. They headed toward First Avenue, which was
blocked by police cars from Forty-second
to Forty-seventh Streets. Beyond them was a wall of
glare, the lights from TV cameras. Parked along
the avenue were three NYPD Emergency Service
Unit Radio Emergency Patrol trucks with
FAT squads-Fugitive Apprehension Teams
just in case the terrorists were Americans. The bomb
squad from the Seventeenth Precinct was also there.
complete with their own van. Overhead was a pair of
NYPD Aviation Unit blue and white
Bell-412 helicopters, their powerful
spotlights shining on the compound. Cleaning personnel
and diplomatic aides were still being evacuated from the
UN and from the towers across the avenue.
  In the glow of the white lights, Hood could see his
ghostly white wife being led across the street with the other
parents. She was looking back, trying to catch a
glimpse of him. He waved, but they were immediately
blocked by the REP trucks on the UN side of the
street and the wall of police on the other. Hood
followed Mohalley south toward Forty-second
Street, where a black State Department sedan was
waiting. Mohalley and Hood slipped into the
backseat. Five minutes later, they were
headed through the renovated Queens-Midtown
Tunnel, out of Manhattan. Hood listened as
Mohalley spoke. And what he heard made him
feel as though he'd been sucker punched, pushed
into taking a big step in the wrong direction.
  TWENTY
  New York, New York Saturday,
10:31 p dism.
  When the gun sounded inside the Security
Council chamber, Colonel Mott immediately moved
in front of the secretary-general. if there had been
additional gunfire, he would have pushed her back
to where his security personnel were standing. The officers
had grabbed blast shields, which were stacked off to the
side, and were standing behind them.
  But there was no more shooting. There was only the acrid
smell of cordite, the cottony deafness caused
by the gunshot, and the unthinkable coldness of the execution.
  Secretary-General Chatterjee stared ahead.
The mantra had failed. A man had died, and so
had hope.
  She had seen death recreated in her father's
films. She had seen the aftermath of genocide in
videos produced by human rights organizations.
Neither of those came close to capturing the
dehumanizing reality of murder. She looked at the
body lying chest- down on the file floor. The
eyes and mouth were both open wide, and the dead face was
like clay, flat on its cheek and turned toward her.
Beneath it, blood was spreading evenly in all
directions. The man's arms were twisted under his
body, and his feet were turned in opposite
directions.
  Where was the shadow of the Atman her faith talked
about, the eternal soul of Hinduism? Where was the
dignity we supposedly carried with us into the cycle
of eternity? "Get him out of here," Colonel
Mott said after what was probably just a second or
two but seemed infinitely longer. "Are you all
right?" he asked the secretary-general.
  She nodded.
  The emergency medical technicians came forward
with a stretcher. They rolled the delegate's body
on top of it. One of the medics placed a thick
swatch of gauze against the gaping head wound. This was more
for propriety than to help the delegate, who was
beyond help.
  Behind the guards, the representatives were still and
silent. Chatterjee looked at them and they looked
at her. Everyone was ashen. Diplomats
dealt with horror every day, but they rarely got
to experience it.
  It was a long moment before Chatterjee remembered
the radio in her hand. She quickly composed herself and
spoke into the mouthpiece. "Why was that necessary?"
  After a short silence, someone answered. "This is
Sergio Continh" Contini was the Italian
delegate. His normally powerful voice was weak and
breathy.
  Colonel Mott turned toward Chatterjee.
His jaw was tight, and there was anger in his dark eyes.
He obviously knew what was corning. "Go ahead,
Signore Contini," Chatterjee said. Unlike
Mott, she was holding on to hope.
  "I have been asked to tell you that I will be the next
victim," he said. The words came slowly,
unsteadily. "I will be shot exactly one--" he
stopped and cleared his
  throat "exactly one hour from now. There will be no
further communication."
  "Please tell your captors that I wish to come
inside," Chatterjee said. "Tell them I want
to-was
  "They've stopped listening," Mott informed her.
"Excuse me?" Chatterjee said.
  The colonel pointed to the small red indicator
light on top of the oblong unit. It was off.
  Chatterjee lowered her arm slowly. The colonel
was wrong. The terrorists never started listening. "How
long until we have pictures from inside the
chamber?" she asked. "I'll send someone
downstairs to find out," Mott said. "We're
maintaining radio silence in case they're listening."
  "I understand," Chatterjce said. She returned his
radio to him. Colonel Mott sent one of his
security officers downstairs, then ordered two
others to clean up the delegate's blood. If they
had to move in, he didn't want anyone slipping
on it. As Mott spoke with his troops, several
of the representatives tried to come forward. Matt
ordered his guards to keep them back. He said that he
didn't want anyone blocking the path to the
Security Council chambers. If any of the
hostages managed to get out, he wanted to be able
to protect them. While Mott kept the crowd
orderly, Chatterjee turned her back on the
group. She walked toward the picture window that
overlooked the front courtyard. It was usually so
active out there, even at night, with the fountain and the
traffic, people jogging or walking their dogs,
lights in the windows of the buildings across the street.
  Even helicopter traffic was being routed away from
midtown-not just in case there was an explosion on the
ground but in the event that the terrorists had
accomplices. She imagined that barge and pleasure
boat traffic was also being stopped along the East
River. The entire enclave was paralyzed. So was
she. Chatterjee took a tremulous breath. She
told herself there was nothing they could have done to prevent the
delegate's murder. They couldn't have put together the
ransom, even if the nations had agreed to try. They
couldn't have attacked the Security Council chamber
without causing more death. They couldn't negotiate,
though they tried. And then suddenly it struck her:
what she'd done wrong. One thing- one small but
significant thing. Walking over to the
representatives, Chatterjee informed them that she was
returning to the conference room to notify the
delegate's family of the assassination. Then, she
said, she was coming back. "To do what?" demanded the
delegate from the Republic of Fiji. "To do what
1 should have done the first time," she replied, and then
headed toward the elevator.
  New York, New York Saturday,
10:39 P.m.
  Reynold Downer went over to Georgiev after
killing the Swedish delegate. Except for a few
of the children who were crying and the Italian delegate who
was praying, everyone in the room was silent and still. The
other masked members of the group remained where they
were.
  Downer stood close enough so that Georgiev could
feel the warmth of his breath through the mask. There were
tiny spots of blood on the fibers.
  "We need to talk," Downer said.
  "About what?" Georgiev whispered angrily.
"About throwing more logs on the fire," Downer
snarled.
  "Go back to your post," Georgiev insisted.
"Listen to me. When I opened the door, I saw
about twenty or twenty-five armed and shielded
security guards in the corridor." "Eunuchs,"
Georgiev said. "They won't risk an
assault. We've talked about this. It will cost them
everything."
  "I know." Downer's eyes shifted to a secure
phone sitting in a duffel bag on the floor. "But
your intelligence source said that only France agreed
to pay. We
  don't have the damned secretary-general
as a hostage, the way we planned."
  "That was unfortunate," Georgiev said, "but not
catastrophic. We'll manage without an
advocate."
  "I don't see how," Downer said.
  "By outwaiting them," Georgiev said. "When the
United States starts to worry that the children are at
risk, they will pay whatever the other nations do not.
They'll charge it to their UN debt, find some
face-saving way to give it to us. Now, go back and
do what you're supposed to do."
  "I don't agree with this," Downer insisted. "I
think we need to turn up the heat."
  "There's no need," Georgiev said. "We have
time, food, and water-was "That isn't what I
mean!" Downer interrupted. Georgiev fired him
a look. The Australian was getting loud. This was
exactly what he expected from Downer. A
ritualistic, confrontational nay-saying, as
predictable and extreme as a Japanese
Kabuki. But it was going on a little too long and
getting a little too loud. He was prepared to shoot
Downer, to shoot any of his people if he had to. He
hoped Downer could see that in his eyes. Downer took
a breath. He was calmer when he spoke.
The message had been received. "What I'm
saying," Downer went on, "is these bastards don't
seem to be getting the message that we want the
money, that we're not going to talk. Chatterjaw
tried to negotiate."
  "We expected that, too," Georgiev said.
"And we closed her down." "For now," Downer
grumbled. "She'll try again. Talk is all these
bloody idiots ever do."
  "And it never succeeds," Georgiev said. "We
have contingencies for everything," the Bulgarian reminded
him quietly. "They will comply."
  The Australian was still holding the gun he'd used
to kill the Swedish delegate. He shook it as he
spoke. "I still think we ought to find out what they're
planning and push the bastards," Downer said. "I
say that after we put down the Italian delegate,
we start serving up the kiddies. Maybe torture
them first, let a few screams drift through the
corridors. Like those Khmer Rouge guerrillas in
Cambodia who caught the family dog and cut it
up slowly to draw out the family. Put pressure
on them to hung things along."
  "We knew that it would take several bullets
to get their attention," Georgiev whispered
back. "We knew that even if there is a willingness
to sacrifice delegates, the United States
won't allow the children to die. Not through an attack and
not through inactivity. Now, for the last time, return
to your post. We will follow our plan."
  Downer left with a huff and an oath, and
Georgiev turned his attention back to the
hostages. The Bulgarian had also expected this.
Reynold Downer was not a patient man. But
resolve could be tested and teamwork strengthened
by conflict and tension. Except in the United
Nations, Georgiev thought ironically. And the reason
for that was simple. The United Nations promoted
peace instead of gain. Peace instead of testing oneself.
Peace instead of life.
  Georgiev would fight it until he succumbed
to the peace there was no avoiding, the peace that eventually
came to every man.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:08 r.m
  The large C-130 was parked and idling on the
airstrip outside the Marine Air Terminal at
La Guardia Airport. Originally called the
Overseas Terminal when it opened in 1939, the
Marine Air Terminal was the airport's
main terminal building at the time. Constricted
adjacent to blustery Jamaica Bay, the terminal
was designed to accomodate passengers of "flying
boats," the preferred mode of international air
travel in the 1930's and 1940's. Today, the Art
Deco Marine Air Terminal is dwarfed by the
Central Terminal Building and the buildings
operated by individual airlines. In its heyday,
however, the Marine Air Terminal had witnessed
history. Though black, the so-called "silver
tarmac" had welcomed politicians and world
leaders, movie stars and celebrated artists,
renowned inventors and world-famous explorers.
Typically, the flashing bulbs of the press had been
on hand to welcome them to New York. Limousines
had been waiting to take them to the city. Tonight, the
Marine Air Terminal witnessed history of a
different sort. Eleven Strikers and General
Mike Rodgers stood on the dark landing strip
surrounded by a dozen military police. Paul
Hood was taut with rage
  when he saw them, literally digging his fingers into the
seat cushion.
  En route, Deputy Chief Mohalley had
told Hood that the MP'S had choppered in
from Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, where they were
attached to the Air Mobility Command.
  "According to the information I was given," Mohalley had
explained, "the Congressional Intelligence
Oversight Committee refused to give your
Strikers permission to become involved in the
crisis. Apparently, the CIOC chairman was
concerned about Striker's reputation for rule-bending, so
he contacted the White House and spoke directly
with the president."
  Obviously, Hood thought bitterly, no one had
bothered to consider Striker's reputation for success.
"When the president tried to phone Mike
Rodgers," Mohalley went on, "he was furious
to learn that Striker was already airborne. The
president's next call was to Colonel Kenneth
Morningside, Fort Monmouth post commander. I'm not
surprised they're taking such a hard line,"
Mohalley added. "About fifteen minutes after the
terrorists went into the United Nations, the State
department issued a general order that no units of the
security police were to set foot in the United
Nations complex. I understand the NYPD got a
similar order. Any incursion had to be requested
by the secretary-general in writing, and the
parameters approved by the unit's commanding officer."
  Hearing this, Hood was more afraid for Harleigh and the
other children than he was before. If Striker wasn't
allowed to save them, who could? But Hood's feelings
of despair shaded to rage when he saw Mike
Rodgers, Brett August, and the rest of the
Strikers being detained.
  These men and women, these combat heroes, didn't
deserve to be treated like thugs.
  Hood got out of the car and jogged toward the group.
Mohalley hurried after him. A stiff, salty
wind blew in from the bay and Mohalley had to hold
his cap to keep it from blowing off. Hood didn't
feel it. The anger roiled inside, burning more
intensely than his fear and frustration. His muscles
were cable-taut and his mind was on fire. Yet his
fury was not just directed at this outrage and at the
continuing ineffectiveness of the UN. Like oil feeding
deep-smoldering fires, his anger spilled everywhere.
He actually found himself mad at Op-Center for
having intruded so much on his life, at Sharon for not
being more supportive, and at himself for having managed
it all so badly. Lieutenant Solo, the
military police; brigade commander, walked forward
to meet them. The lieutenant was a short,
beefy, balding man in his late thirties. He
had unyielding eyes and a no-nonsense face.
  Mohalley caught up to Hood and introduced
himself to the colonel. Then he went to introduce
Hood. But Hood had already walked past the
officers toward the ring of MP'S. Frowning, the
colonel turned and strode after him. Mohalley
followed the colonel. Hood stopped just short of
shouldering his way through the MP'S'-BUT it was a very
short stop. Enough common sense remained to remind
Hood that if he fought these people, he was going to lose.
The lieutenant eased in front of Hood.
"Excuse me, sir--" he said. Hood ignored
him. "Mike, are you all right?" "Been in worse
spots," he said.
  That was true, Hood had to admit.
Perspective joined common sense and Hood
relaxed slightly.
  "Mr. Hood," the lieutenant said insistently.
Hood looked at him,, "Lieutenant Solo,
these service-men report to me. What are your
orders?"
  "We've been instructed to make certain that all
Striker personnel are put back on hoard the
C-130 and to remain at our post until
the aircraft returns to Andrews," Solo informed
him. "Fine," Hood said with open disgust. "Let
Washington bench the only hope the UN'S got-was
  "This was not my decision, sir," Solo said. "I
know, Lieutenant," Hood said, "and I'm not
angry at you." He wasn't. He was angry at
everyone. "But I do have a situation that requires the
presence of my second-in-command, General
Rodgers. The general is not a member of the Striker
unit."
  Lieutenant Solo looked from Hood
to Rodgers, then back to Hood. "If that's true,
then my instructions do not pertain to the general."
Rodgers stepped away from the Strikers and moved through
the tight circle of MP'S.
  Mohalley scowled. "Hold on," he said.
"The general order I was given does pertain to all
security and military personnel, including
General Rodgers. Mr. Hood, I'd like to know
what the situation is that requires the general's
presence."
  "It's personal," Hood replied.
  "if it pertains to the situation at the United
Nations--"It does," Hood said. "My daughter
is being held hostage there. Mike
Rodgers is her godfather." Mohalley regarded
Rodgers. "Her godfather."
  "That's right," Rodgers said.
  Hood said nothing. It didn't matter whether the
DOS security officer believed him. All that
mattered was that Rodgers be allowed to go with him.
  Mohalley looked at Hood. "Only immediate
family are allowed to go into the waiting room with you."
"Then I will not go to the waiting room," Hood said
through his teeth. He'd had enough of this. He had never
hit a man, but if this functionary didn't step
aside, Hood was going to push him aside.
  Rodgers was standing directly beside the shorter
State Department officer. The general was watching
Hood. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind.
It seemed much louder now in the silence. "All right,
Mr. Hood," Mohalley said. "I'm not going
to hold your feet to the fire on this one."
  Hood exhaled.
  Mohalley looked at Rodgers. "Would you like a
ride, sir?" "I would, thank you," Rodgers said.
  Rodgers was still looking at Hood. And Hood
suddenly felt like he did when they used to sit in his
office at Op-Center. He felt reconnected,
tapped into a network of devoted friends and
coworkers.
  God help him. In the midst of everything, he
felt whole again. Before leaving, Rodgers turned to the
Strikers. They came to attention. Colonel
August saluted him. Rodgers saluted back.
Then, on August's command, the Strikers returned
to the C-130. The circle of MP'S parted to let
them through. The police remained on the landing strip as
Hood, Rodgers, and Mohalley returned to the
car. Paul Hood didn't have a plan. He
didn't imagine that
  Mike Rodgers had one, either. Whatever
Rodgers might have been thinking of doing would have
involved Striker. But as the State Department sedan
turned from the Marine Air Terminal and the towering
C-130, Hood was slightly less anguished
than he had been before. It wasn't entirely
Rodgers's presence that comforted him. It was also a
reminder of something he'd learned from running
Op-Center: that plans made in moments of calm
rarely worked in a crisis anyway.
  There were only two of them, but they were backed by the
strongest team in the world, and they'd think of something.
They had to.
  New York, New York
Saturday, 11:11 F.m.
  "I absolutely can't allow you to do this!"
Colonel Mott was practically shouting at
Secretary-General Chatterjee. "It's
insanity. No, it's worse than insanity. It's
suicide! was The two were standing by the head of the table in
the conference room. Deputy Secretary-General
Takahara and Undersecretary-General Javier
Qlivo. were standing several feet away beside the closed
door. Chatterjee had just hung up with Gertrud
Johanson, the wife of the Swedish delegate, who
was at home in Stockholm. Her husband had
attended the party with his young executive assistant,
Liv, who was still in the Security Council chamber.
Mrs. Johanson would be flying over as soon as
possible.
  It was both sad and ironic, Chatterjee thought,
that so many political wives ended up with their
husbands only after the men were dead. She wondered if
she would be doing this if she were married.
  Probably, she decided.
  "Ma'am?" the Colonel said. "Please tell
me you'll reconsider." She couldn't. She
believed that she was right. And believing that, she could do
nothing else. That was her
  dhanna, the sacred duty that came with the life she
had chosen. "I appreciate your fears,"
Secretary-General Chatterjee said, "but I
believe that this is our best option." "It is not,"
Mott said. "We should have video images of the
Security Council in a few minutes. Give
me a half hour to have a look at them, and then
I'll take my team in."
  "In the meantime," the secretary-general pointed
out, "Ambassador Contini will die."
  "The ambassador will die anyway," Mott
said. "I don't accept that," Chatterjee said.
  "That's because you're a diplomat and not a
soldier," Mott said. "The ambassador is what
we call an operative loss. That's a soldier
or unit you can't get to in time unless you risk the
security of the rest of the company. So you don't try.
You can't. was "A company is not at risk,
Colonel Mott," Chatterjee said. "Only
me. I'm going to the Security Council and going
inside." Mott shook his head angrily. "I
think you're doing this to punish yourself, Madam
Secretary-General, and you have no reason to. You
did the right thing trying to radio the terrorists."
  "No," Chatterjee said. "I did the
shortsighted thing. I didn't think to the next
step."
  "That's easy to say now," Deputy
Secretary-General Takahara suggested. "No
one here had a better idea. And if we had thought of
this option, I would have argued against it."
  Chatterjee looked at her watch. They only
had nineteen minutes before the next deadline.
"Gentlemen, I'm going ahead with this," she said.
  "They'll cut you down," Mott warned.
"They've probably got someone stationed at the door
to shoot anyone who tries to come in." "If they do,
then perhaps my death will count as their murder of the hour,"
Chatterjee said. "Maybe they'll spare
Ambassador Contini. Then you, Mr. Takahara,
will have to decide what to do next."
  "What to do next," Mott muttered. "What
else is there to do but move in on these monsters? And
there's something else you haven't considered. The
terrorists told us that any attempt to liberate the
hostages would result in the release of poison
gas. We're dealing with a hairtrigger situation.
There's a good chance they may interpret your attempt
to enter the room as an attack by my security forces
or perhaps as a diversion for an attack."
"I'll talk to them through the door," Chatterjee
said. "I'll make it clear that I'm coming in
unarmed." "Which is exactly what we'd say if
we wanted to deceive them," Mott told her.
"Colonel, in this instance I agree with the
secretary-general," Deputy
Secretary-General Takahara said. "Remember,
it's not just Ambassador Contini's life that's in
danger. If you enter the Security Council with an
armed security force, there will absolutely be
extensive casualties among the hostages and
possibly your own personnel, not to mention the risk
of the poison gas.
  Chatterjee looked at her watch again.
"Unfortunately, we don't have time to discuss this
further." "Ma'am," Mott said, "will you at least
put on a bulletproof vest?"
  "No," Chatterjee replied. "I must go into that
room with hope and also with trust."
  The secretary-general opened the door. She
walked into the corridor followed closely
by Colonel Mott. Despite the hopes she'd
expressed in the conference room, Chatterjee knew
she might be walking to her death. The awareness that she
might have just a few minutes left to live
made her senses hyperalert and changed the otherwise
familiar complexion of the corridor. The sights and
smells, even the sound of the tile under her shoes, were
vivid. And for the first time in her brief career here, she
wasn't distracted by talk or debate, by pressing
issues of war, peace, sanctions, and resolutions.
That made the experience even more surreal.
  She and Mott entered the elevator. There were
five minutes left before the deadline.
  Only now did it occur to her how wickedly
final that word sounded.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:28 P.m.
  Georgiev was standing near the opening of the circular
table in the Security Council chamber. He had
been keeping an eye on the delegates and also on
his watch. The other men were still guarding the doors,
except for Barone. The Uruguayan was kneeling in
the center of the room, just before the gallery, looking
down. When two minutes remained until the next
deadline, the Bulgarian turned and nodded at
Downer.
  The Australian had been pacing slowly by the
northern door of the upper gallery. He had been
watching Georgiev. When he got the
signal, he started down the stairs.
  Several of the men and women sitting on the floor
inside the table began to whimper. Georgiev hated
weakness. So he raised his automatic and pointed it
at one of the women. He used to do that with his girls in
Cambodia. Whenever one or more of them came and
threatened to expose him because she was being treated
poorly or was being paid less than he'd promised,
Georgiev wouldn't say a word. He'd simply
point a gun at her head. It never failed: Every
opening in her face--her eyes, nose, and mouth-would
gape and freeze there. Then Georgiev would speak:
"If you complain to me
  again, 1 will kill you," he'd say. "If you try
to leave, I will kill you and your family." They never
complained after that. Out of the more than one hundred girls
who had worked for him during the year his ring operated,
he'd only had to shoot two of them. Everyone on the
floor stopped sobbing. Georgiev lowered the gun.
There were still tears but no more sounds. Downer was nearly
at the bottom of the stairs when Georgiev saw the
light on the TACSAT flash. He was surprised.
He had spoken to Annabelle Hampton an hour
ago, when she let him know that the secretary-general
intended to try to negotiate. For a moment,
Georgiev wondered if Downer's fears were going
to be realized and security forces would try to move
in. But that wasn't possible. The UN wouldn't
risk it. He walked to the phone.
  Annabelle Hampton had been Georgiev's
riskiest but most important acquisition. From the
time they had first met in Cambodia, Annabelle
had impressed him as a determined and independent
woman. She was in Phnom Penh recruiting
HUMINT and personnel for the CIA. Georgiev
provided her with intelligence his girls obtained from
their customers. He also gave her intel he picked
up from his own Khmer Rouge contacts. Though he was
paying the rebels and getting paid to spy on them, he
actually made a small personal profit on the
arrangement.
  When the UNTAC operation ended in 1993,
Georgiev sought Annabelle out in order to sell
her the names of the girls he'd been using. Learning
she'd been transferred to Seoul, he contacted her
there. Annabelle seemed more angry than
ambitious by then. When he mentioned that he was leaving the
army to go into business, she half-joked that he should
keep her in mind if he heard of any interesting
opportunities.
  He did.
  Up until this afternoon, when Annabelle gave
Georgiev the detailed timetable for tonight's United
Nations event, he wondered if she was going to rack
out. He was confident she wouldn't betray him because he
knew where her parents lived; he'd made a point
of sending them flowers while Annabelle was visiting
there for Christmas. Still, the final hours before any
mission are what the great nineteenth-century
Bulgarian General Grigor Halachev used
to call "the times of gravest doubt." That's when the
external plans are finally set, and soldiers had
a chance to examine their internal condition.
  Annabelle had not backed down. She had as much
steel in her as any soldier in this room.
  He picked up the phone. "Speak," he said.
That was the only word Annabelle had been told
to respond to. "The secretary-general is on her
way again," Ani informed him. "Only this time, she's
planning to cotta; into the Security Council
chamber. She hopes you'll take her in."
  Georgiev smiled.
  "Either that," Ani said, "or she hopes you'll
target her instead of the Italian delegate."
  "Pacifists always hope you'll target
them until you really do," Georgiev said. "Then
they cry and beg. What are her advisers saying?"
  "Colonel Mott and one of the
undersecretary-generals are encouraging a strike as
soon as they get video images of the chamber,"
Ani said. "The other officials have been
noncommittal."
  Georgiev glanced at Barone. The security
unit wouldn't be getting any images. When
Annabelle had informed them of the plan, Georgiev
had sent Barone to the spot where they were said to be
drilling. As soon as the tiny camera came through,
he would cover it. "Was there any further discussion
about paying the ransom?" Georgiev asked her.
  "None," Ani said.
  "No matter," Georgiev said. "No video
images, more dead--they'll turn to our needs
soon."
  "There is one thing more," Ani said. "I've just
been informed by my superior that a SWAT team from the
National Crisis Management Center is coming up
from Washington."
  "The NCMC?" Georgiev said. "Sanctioned
by whom?" "No one," Ani told him. "They're
going to use my office as their headquarters.
If the UN gives them the goahead, they may come
in." That was unexpected. Georgiev had heard that
the NCMC staged a very creditable action in Russia
during the coup attempt over a year before. Though he
had poison gas and battle plans for the Security
Council chamber, he didn't want to have to use
either. On the other hand, the UN would have to give the
SWAT team permission to come in. And if he could
get Chatterjee in here, she would give Georgiev
the means of forestalling that. Georgiev thanked
Annabelle and hung up.
  The secretary-general would be a welcome addition
to the hostages. He had always counted on having her as
an advocate for the children. Telling the nations of the world
to cooperate for their release. Now she would
  also help him to keep the military out. And when it
was time to go, she and the children would make ideal hostages.
Downer arrived. The only question was what to do about the
Italian delegate. If they shot him, it would
undermine the secretary-general's credibility as a
peace-maker. If they spared him, they'd seem
weak.
  Deciding that the secretary-general's credibility
was not his concern, Georgiev nodded to Downer. Then
he watched as the Australian
half-pushed, half-pulled the weeping delegate
up the stairs.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:29 p.m.
  "They're going to do it again."
  Brown-haired Laura Sabia was sitting on
Harleigh Hood's left. She was staring ahead
blankly and shaking worse than before. It was as if
she were on a bad sugar high. Harleigh placed her
fingertips back on the girl's hand to try and calm
her. "They're going to kill him," Laura said.
"Shhhh," Harleigh said. Barbara Mathis, who was
sitting on Harleigh's right, was watching the
terrorists. The raven-haired violinist was sitting
up straight and seemed very intense. Harleigh knew
the look. Barbara was the kind of musician who got
irrationally angry if someone made a noise that
caused her to break concentration. Barbara looked like
she was getting to that point now. Harleigh hoped not.
The girls watched as the masked men led the
delegate up the stairs. The victim fell to his
hands and knees on one of the steps and was crying, saying
something fast and high in Italian. The masked man,
the Australian, grabbed him by the back of his collar
and yanked at him hard. The Italian's
arms crumpled and he fell forward. The masked man
swore, crouched, and put his gun between the man's
legs. He said something to the Italian,
  who grabbed onto a chair and quickly struggled
back to his feet. The men continued to the top of the
stairs. Near the young violinists, in the center of the
circular table, a delegate's wife was comforting
another woman. She was holding her close and
pressing her hand over her mouth. Harleigh guessed
that this was the wife of the man who was about to die. Laura
was literally fluttering now, as though there were an
electric current running through her. Harleigh had
never seen anything like it. She closed her fingers around
Laura's hands and squeezed.
  I "You've got to calm down," Harleigh said
under her breath. "I can't," Laura said. "I can't
breathe. I need to get out of here."
  "Soon," Harleigh said. "They'll get us out.
Just sit back and shut your eyes. Try and
relax."
  Harleigh's father had once told her and her
brother that if they were ever in a situation like this, the
important thing was to stay centered. Invisible. Count
the seconds, he'd said, not the minutes or the
hours. The longer a hostage crisis went
on, the better the chance for a negotiated settlement.
The better the chance for survival. If there were an
opportunity to escape, she had to use common
sense. The question she had to ask herself was not, Is there a
chance I'll make it? The question was, Is there a
chance I won't make it? If the answer was yes,
it was better to stay where you were. He'd also told
her to avoid eye contact wherever possible. That would
humanize her to her captors. It would remind them
that she was one of the people they hated. She should also say
nothing, in case it was the wrong thing. Above all, she
was supposed to relax. Think happy thoughts, just like
  they did in two of her favorite musicals,
Peter Pan and The Sound of Music.
  "Uura?" Harleigh said.
  Laura didn't seem to have heard. "Laura, you
have to listen to me." She wasn't hearing anything. The
young woman had slipped into some kind of weird
state. Her eyes were staring and her lips were pressed
tight.
  The two men had reached the top of the stairs. On
Harleigh's other side, Barbara Mathis was the
opposite of Laura, taut as a violin string.
She was sneering in a way that Harleigh knew well.
Harleigh felt like the statue at the
Justice Department. Only instead of the scales of
justice she was between emotional extremes.
  Suddenly, Laura shot from her seat. Harleigh
was still holding the girl's hand.
  "Why are you doing this to us?" Laura shrieked as
she stood there. "I want you to stop it now!"
Harleigh tugged gently on her hand "Laura,
don't do The leader of the gang was standing halfway up
the steps. He turned and glared at the girls.
Ms. Dom was sitting three seats away. She
rose slowly but remained behind her seat. "Laura,
sit down, was she said firmly. "No," Laura
pulled away from Harleigh. "I can't stay here!"
she screamed, and ran around the table. She was headed
toward the door on the other side of the chamber, the
door the leader had been guarding.
  The leader started down the stairs as Laura ran
across the carpeted floor. Ms. Dorn ran after
Laura, shouting for her to come back. The man who'd
been standing on the other side of the room, guarding the
other door, left
  his post and ran after the teacher. The Australian
man at the top of the stairs had stopped and was looking
down at them. Everyone was watching Laura as the
leader, Ms. Dom, and the other man all
reached the door. The other man grabbed Ms. Dom
around the waist, pulled her back, swung her around,
and literally flung her on the floor. The leader
reached the door as Laura was pulling it open. He
threw his shoulder into it, closing it, and pushed Laura
back. The girl stumbled, fell, got up, and
rushed toward the stairs. She was still shrieking.
  The door isn't locked.
  The thought hit Harleigh like a bright light. Of
course it wasn't locked. The men had opened the
doors and they didn't have the keys to lock them.
  They'd opened the door Laura had run toward,
and they'd opened the door behind Harleigh. Harleigh
had watched them do it. They'd spent some time putting
equipment into the hallway down here. The door that was
about twenty feet behind where Harleigh and Barbara were
sitting. The door the man had just run from in order
to catch Laura.
  The door no one was guarding.
  The leader was running after Laura. Ms. Dom
had had the wind knocked from her but was fighting with the man
who'd thrown her down. The pressure must have gotten
to her; the music teacher wasn't thinking. But
Harleigh was, clearly and confidently. She was
thinking not only of getting out and saving herself,
but of bringing what "Uncle" Bob Herbert called
"intel" to the outside. The teenager turned slowly
and stole a sideways look at the door. She could
run a dash like that easily. She'd
  blue-ribboned the fifty-yard dash in high
school two out of four years. She could certainly
get to the double doors before any of the men could stop her.
And once she was out of here, there had to be a way
to get into the Economic and Social Council
chamber. She'd seen the double doors on that side
during the tour they'd been given.
  Harleigh used the toe of her right high-heeled
shoe to slip off her left shoe. Then she slowly
did the same with the right. Her fellow students were
watching the struggle.
  Harleigh eased the chair back. Slowly, without
rising, she pivoted the chair on one leg so she could
turn her body around slightly. Have a clear,
straight run at the exit.
  "Don't do it," Barbara said from the side of her
mouth. "What?" Harleigh said.
  "I know what you're thinking," Barbara said, "because
I'm thinking the same thing. Don't go for it. I
am.
  . 'ationo-[*thorn]
  "I'm faster than you," Barbara murmured. "I
beat you two years in a row."
  "I'm two steps closer," Harleigh pointed
out. Barbara shook her head slowly. Her eyes were
angry and her mind was made up. Harleigh didn't
know what to do. She didn't want to race Barbara
for the door. They'd only trip each other up.
  The girls looked over as the leader caught
Laura mid-way up the stairs. He lifted her
off the floor and threw her backward, down the
stairs. Laura bounced and rolled and came to a
stop at the bottom. She was moving her
  arms and head slowly, painfully. The leader
hurried down to her. Barbara took a few slow,
shallow breaths. She put her hands on the edge of the
wooden table. She waited until she was sure that
no one was looking her way. Then she pushed off from the
table, rose, and ran.
  Her legs were hindered by the tight gown she was
wearing. Harleigh heard a rip along the side, but
Barbara kept running. Her arms churned, she
kept her eyes on the doorknob, and she ignored
whichever of the terrorists or delegates or whoever was
shouting at her to stop. Harleigh watched as she reached
the door. Go! Harleigh thought.
  Barbara stopped to pull it open. She heard the
latch click, the door came open, and then she
heard a whip--loud crack. It stayed inside her
ears, filling them, like the first blast of music when her
Walkman was turned too high.
  The next thing Harleigh knew, Barbara was no
longer standing. She was still holding the doorknob, but she
was on her knees. Her hand slipped from the knob, and
her arm flopped to her side. Barbara's body
remained upright, but only for a moment. Then she fell
to the side.
  She was no longer angry.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:30
  Secretary-General Chatterjee stopped when she
heard the muffled gunshot. It was followed by shrill
cries, and then a few moments later there was a
second gunshot, closer to the corridor than the
first. Almost immediately after that, the door of the Security
Council chamber opened. Ambassador Contini was
thrown out, and the door was quickly shut.
  Colonel Mott ran over to the body at
once, his foot-steps breaking the utter stillness of the
corridor. He was followed by the emergency medical
crew. The delegate's well-dressed
body was lying on its side, Contini's dark face
toward them. His expression was relaxed, his eyes
shut, his lips slightly parted. The man didn't
look dead, not the way Ambassador Johanson
had. Then the blood started to pool beneath his soft
cheek.
  Mott squatted beside the body. He looked behind
the head. There was a single wound, just like before.
  As the medical team placed the body on a
stretcher, Chatterjee walked toward the doors of the
Security Council chamber. She looked away from
the body as she passed. Mott rose and intercepted
her. "Ma'am, there's nothing you can gain by going in
  there now," he said. "At least wait until we
have the video." "Wait!" Chatterjee said.
"I've already waited too long!" Just then, one of the
security force personnel came from the Economic
and Social Council chamber. Lieutenant
David Mailman was assigned to a makeshift,
two-person reconnaissance team. He and his partner
had pulled a fifteen-year-old Remote Infinity
Eavesdropping Device out of storage.
Designed to work over a telephone line, they rigged
it to pick up voices through the headphones of the
translating units at each seat in the
Security Council chamber. Since the range was
only twentyfive feet, they had to work from the
adjoining room. They were situated in the small
corridor that led to the second-floor media center
and was common to both the Trusteeship Council and
Security Council chambers. "Sir,"
Lieutenant Mailman said to the colonel, "we
think someone just tried to get out of the Security
Council. We saw the doorknob twist and heard
that latch jiggle right before the first shot." "Was it a
warning shot?" Mott asked.
  "We don't believe so," Mailman replied.
"Whoever was back there moaned after the report." The
lieutenant looked down. "It--it didn't sound like
a man, sir. It was a very soft voice."
  "One of the children," Chatterjee said with horror.
"We don't know that," Mott said. "Is there
anything else, lieutenant?" "No, sir,"
Mailman said.
  The officer left. The colonel balled his
fists, then looked at his watch. He was waiting for
word about the
  video surveillance. Secure phones had been
requested from the U.s. State Department
Diplomatic Security forces; until
they arrived, all communications had to be done
person-to-person. Chatterjee had never seen a
man look so helpless.
  The secretary-general was still facing the door.
Ambassador Contini's death hadn't hit her like the
first one did, and that disturbed her. Or maybe her
reaction had been blunted by the news Lieutenant
Mailman brought. A child may have been shot--
Chatterjee started toward the door.
  Mott gently grabbed her arm. "Please don't
do this. Not yet." The secretary-general stopped.
  "I know that there's nothing I can do from the outside,"
she said. "If it becomes necessary to take action, you
won't need me here. But inside, I may be able
to make a difference."
  The colonel looked at the secretary-general
for a long moment, then released her arm.
  "You see?" she said with a soft smile.
"Diplomacy. I didn't have to pull my arm
away."
  Mott seemed unconvinced as he watched her go.
  New York, New Yoic Saturday,
11:31 PM.
  Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers sat in the
backseat of the sedan while Mohalley
sat up front with his driver, Manhattan seemed
like a very different place as Hood returned to it.
  The Secretariat Building stood out more than it
had when he and his family first arrived-was it only
a day before? The building was lit by spotlights that had
been placed on the rooftops of adjoining
skyscrapers. But the offices themselves were dark, making
the structure seem cadaverous. The UN no
longer reminded him of the proud and hale "bat
symbol." It wasn't the living chest of the city but
seemed like a thing already dead.
  When they left the airport shortly after eleven
p.m., Deputy Chief Mohalley called his
office to find out if there were any new developments.
His assistant informed him that as far as they knew,
nothing had happened since the first execution.
Meanwhile, Hood had brought Rodgers up
to date. Characteristically, Rodgers listened and said
nothing. The general didn't like to reveal what he was
thinking in public. To Rodgers, being with people who
weren't part of his trusted circle was "in public."
  Both men were silent as they crossed through the tun
nel back into Manhattan. When they were through,
Mohalley turned to them for the first time.
  "Where will I be dropping you off, Mr.
Hood, General Rodgers?" Mohalley asked.
  "We'll get out where you do," Hood said. "I'm
getting off at the State Department."
  "That'll be fine," Hood said. He said nothing
more. He still intended to go to the CIA shell at the
United Nations Plaza, though he didn't want
Mohalley to know that.
  Once again, Mohalley didn't seem happy
with that answer, but he didn't press it.
  The car emerged from the tunnel on Thirty-seventh
Street. As the driver made his way up First
Avenue, Mohalley looked at Mike
Rodgers.
  "I want you to know I hate what happened back
there," the State Department officer said.
  Rodgers nodded once.
  "I've heard about Striker," Mohalley said.
"They've got quite a rep. As far as I'm concerned,
we couldn't do much better than to send your people in and
get this thing over with."
  "It's sick," Hood said. "Everyone
probably feels that way, but no one will authorize
it."
  "This whole thing is a mess," Mohalley said as
his car phone beeped. "Hundreds of heads
and no brain. It's almost breathtaking, in a tragic
sort of way."
  Mohalley answered the phone as the car stopped
at the Fortysecond Street barricade. A pair
of police officers in riot gear walked over.
While the driver showed them his State Department
ID, Mohalley listened in silence.
  Hood watched the man's face under the glow of a
  streetlight. Curiosity gnawed at him. He
looked over at the United Nations complex. From this
angle, looking up, the Secretariat Building
seemed large and imposing against the black sky. His
baby seemed so small and vulnerable as he thought about
her inside that blue white monstrosity.
  Mohalley hung up. He looked back.
"What is it?" Hood asked. "Another
delegate was shot," Mohalley told him. "And
possibly," he said, "possibly one of the children."
  Hood stared at him. It took an instant for
"one of the children" to translate as possibly
Harleigh. When it did, life seemed to lose all
forward momentum. Hood knew that he would never forget
Mohalley's somber expression at that moment, the
brilliant white glare on the windshield, and the
looming Secretariat behind it. It was now and
forever the picture of lost hope. "There was a
gunshot prior to the one that killed the delegate,"
Mohalley went on. "One of the UN security people
in the adjoining chamber heard someone trying to get out the
side. door there. There was a cry or a groan after
that."
  "Is there any more information?" Rodgers asked as the
police let the car through.
  "There's been no communication from the Security
Council," Mohalley said, "but the
secretary-general is going to try to get inside."
The sedan pulled up to the curb. "Mike," Hood
said. "I've got to go to Sharon."
  "I know," Rodgers said. He cracked the door
and stepped out.
  "General, would you like to come with me?" Mohalley
asked. Rodgers stepped aside as Hood climbed
out. "No," he said, "but thanks."
  Mohalley handed Hood his business card.
"Let me know if you need anything."
  "Thanks," Hood said. "I will."
  Mohalley once again looked like he wanted
to ask something but didn't. Rodgers shut the door.
The car pulled from the curb and Rodgers stood facing
Hood.
  Hood heard the distant sounds of traffic and the
hum of the helicopters hovering over the river and the
UN. He heard the shouts of police and the clump
of sandbags being dropped behind wooden barricades
along Forty-second and Forty-seventh Streets.
Yet he didn't feel like he was there. He was still in
the car, still staring at Mohalley.
  Still hearing him say, "And possibly one of the children.
was "Paul," Rodgers said.
  Hood was staring at the buildings as they shrank
into the darkness of upper First Avenue. He had to force
himself to breathe. "Don't go away on me,"
Rodgers said. "I'm going to need you later, and
Sharon needs you now."
  Hood nodded. Rodgers was right. But he couldn't
seem to get out of that damn car, away from
Mohalley's sad face and the horror of that moment.
  "I'm going across the street," Rodgers went
on. "Brett is going to meet me at the shell."
  That got Hood's attention. His eyes shifted
to Rodgers. "Brett?" "We saw the MP'S when
we were taxiing to the ter minal," Rodgers said. "We
had a pretty good idea why they were there. Brett
told me he'd get out somehow and meet me here."
The general found a little smile. "You know
Brett. No one tells him to run."
  Hood came back a little. Whoever the possible
victim was, there were still lives at risk. He
looked over at the State Department tower. "I've
got to go."
  "I know," Rodgers said. "Take care of her."
"You have my cell phone number-was
  "I do," Rodgers said. "When we find something out
or have any ideas, I'll call."
  Hood thanked him and started toward the redbrick
building.
  New York, New York Saturday,
I1:SZ P.m.
  Georgiev was carrying the panicked girl back
to her seat when Barbara Mathis went down. Downer,
who had fired the shot, was running from the top of the
gallery. Barone was also running over. It was he who
had shouted for Barbara to stop. Heedless of her own
safety, one of the Asian delegates" wives
had gotten up from the table and was walking over
to Barbara. She was smart. She didn't run. She
also stopped with her back to the door; she didn't
intend to run. The Bulgarian didn't order the
woman back. She set her purse down, knelt
beside the girl, and carefully plucked the
blood-soaked gown from around the wound. The bullet
had struck the teenage girl in the left side.
Blood was oozing from the small opening. The girl
wasn't moving. The flesh of her slender arms was
pale.
  Georgiev continued"toward the circular table.
He wondered if that whole thing had been planned:
One girl runs screaming to get everyone's attention
while another girl runs in the opposite
direction and tries to get out. If so, it was a
clever, dangerous maneuver. Georgiev admired
courage. But just like some of the girls who used to work for
him in Cambodia some of whom were no
  older than this girl-she had acted disobediently.
And she had been punished.
  Unfortunately, the lesson was probably lost
on the other hostages. They were already getting
surprisingly bold. Some were pushed by fear, others
by outrage over what had happened to the girl and the
delegates. A mob mentality, even among
hostages, had a way of shutting down reason. If
they turned on him, he'd have to shoot them. Shooting
them would rob him of his leverage, and the sound of
gunfire and cries would embolden security forces
to move in. Of course, he would shoot them
if he had to. All he really needed to get out of
this were the children. Even one child would do, if it came to that.
  Suddenly, two other delegates stood up. That
was the problem with giving one person some extra leash.
Everyone assumed they had it, too. Georgiev
dropped the stunned Laura into her seat, where she
sat sobbing. He ordered the other delegates to sit
down. He didn't want too many people on their feet
or someone else might be tempted to run.
  "But that girl is hurt!" one of the delegates
said. "She needs help."
  Georgiev raised his gun. "I haven't
selected the next one to die. Don't make my
choice easy."
  The men sat down. The one who'd spoken looked
like he wanted to say something else; his wife urged
him to be silent. The other one looked sadly toward
Barbara.
  To their right, Contini's wife was sobbing hysterically.
One of the other wives was hugging her tight to keep her
from wailing. Vandal brought the music teacher back and
ordered her to sit as well. Ms. Dorn said that she
was responsible
  for Barbara and insisted that she be allowed to take
care of her. Vandal pushed her back down.
She started to get back up. Angrily,
Georgiev swung toward the woman. He pointed
his gun at her head and walked forward. Vandal
backed away.
  "One more word from you or anyone else and they will
die," he said through his teeth. "One more word."
Georgiev watched as the woman's nose flared and
eyes widened, just like the whores in Cambodia. But
she was silent. Reluctantly, she sat down and
turned her attention to the girl who'd tried to run.
  Vandal lingered a moment longer and then returneea1
to his post. Downer reached Georgiev's side at
the sai: time as Barone. Barone got very close to the
Australian. "Are you insane?" Barone snarled.
"I had to do it!" he snapped.
  "Had to?" he said, careful to keep his voice
low. "We were going to try not to hurt the children."
  "The mission would have been in jeopardy if she'd
gotten away," Downer said.
  "You heard me yelling, saw me running toward
her," Barone said. "I would have gotten to her before she
reached the outer door." "Maybe yes, maybe
no," Georgiev said. "The important thing is,
she didn't get away. Now, go back to your
posts, both of you. We'll care for her here
as best we can," Georgiev said. Barone glared at
him. "She's a young girl." Georgiev glared
back. "No one told her to run!" Barone was
furiously silent. "Now we have a door
unprotected, and you should be watching for the fiber-optic
cable," Georgiev said, quietly. "Or would you rather
see our planning and effort lost because of that!" He
pointed toward Barbara. Downer grunted and
returned to the top of the gallery. Barone huffed,
shook his head in frustration, then went back to the
front of the gallery.
  Georgiev watched them go. Whether he liked it
or not, this had changed things. Crime is a
mood-intensifying effort. Close quarters
heightens emotions, and an unexpected drama
makes things even worse.
  "You have to let me send her out of here."
Georgiev turned. The Asian woman was standing
beside him. He hadn't even heard her approach.
  "No," he said. He was distracted. He had
to refocus, get his men back. Push the United
Nations harder. And he thought he knew how. "But
she's going to bleed to death," the woman said.
Georgiev walked toward one of the duffel bags.
He didn't want the girl to die because it
might incite a rebellion. He pulled a
small blue case from inside and came back. He
handed her the box. "Use this," Georgiev said.
  "A first aid kit?" the woman said. "That isn't
going to help." "That's all I can give you."
  "But there may be internal bleeding, organ
damage-was the woman said. Downer waved and caught
Georgiev's eye. The Australian was pointing
toward the door.
  "You'll have to make do," the Bulgarian said to the
woman and motioned Vandal over. When the Frenchman
arrived, Georgiev told him to make sure the
Asian woman didn't try to get out. Then
Georgiev walked toward the stairs.
  He stepped up to Downer. "What is it?"
  "She's here," the Australian whispered
thickly. "The secretary-general. She knocked
on the bloody door and asked to come in." "Is that
all she said?" Georgiev asked. "That's all,"
Downer told him.
  Georgiev looked past the Australian.
Focus, he told himself. Things had changed. He
had to think this through. If he let Chatterjee in,
her efforts would become focused on getting the girl
medical attention, not on getting them the
money. And if he did let the girl out, the press
would find out that a child had been hurt, possibly
killed. There would be increased pressure for
military action, despite the risks for the
hostages. There was also the chance that the girl might
became conscious in the hospital. If she did,
she could describe the distribution of the men and
hostages to security personnel.
  Of course, Georgiev could let the
secretary-general in and refuse to let the girl out.
What would Chatterjee do, risk the lives of the other
children by refusing to cooperate? She might,
Georgiev thought. And just having her challenge his
authority in here might embolden the captives or
else weaken his influence among his own people.
  Georgiev looked back at the hostages. He
had told the UN how to contact him and what to say
when they did. His instincts told him to go
downstairs, get another one, and have him make the
same speech the last delegate had made. Why
should he change his plan, let them think he lacked
resolve?
  Because situations tike these are fluid, he told
himself.
  Then it came to him, suddenly, like his best
ideas always did. A way to give Chatterjee what
she wanted without compromising his demands. He would
see her. Only not in the way she expected.
  Washington, D. C. Saturday, 11:33
Part.
  Most of the time, Bob Herbert was an easygoing
man. Over a decade and a half before, his injuries
and the loss of his wife had tossed him into a
depression that lasted for nearly a year. But
physical therapy helped him to overcome
selfpity, and getting back to work at the CIA
bolstered the sense of selfworth that had been
destroyed in the Beirut embassy explosion.
Since helping to organize and launch Op-Center
nearly three years before, Herbert had enjoyed some
of the greatest challenges and rewards of his career. His
wife would have found it very amusing that the chronic grouch
she had married, the man whose spirits she'd always tried
to raise, was known around the National Crisis
Mangement Center as Mr. Upbeat.
  Sitting alone in his dark office, which was lit
only by the glow of the computer monitor, Herbert was
neither easygoing nor upbeat. He wasn't only
troubled by the fact that Paul Hood's daughter was
one of the United Nations hostages. It
wasn't only the knowledge that situations like this invariably
ended in bloodshed. Sometimes it happened quickly, if
the host nation or entity ousted the intruders before they could
become entrenched. Sometimes it happened slowly,
evolving from
  a standoff to a siege, which turned into an assault
as soon as a plan could be formulated. On those rare
occasions when a negotiated settlement could be
reached, it was usually because the terrorists had only
taken hostages to get attention for a cause. When
they wanted money or the release of prisoners-which was
most of the time-that was when things got messy. What
bothered him most were two things. First, the United
Nations was the target. It had never been attacked in
this way, and it did not have a record of taking a hard
line with hostile agencies under any circumstances.
Second, he was concerned about the E-mail he'd just
received from Darrell McCaskey about the United
Nations party roster. What the hell kind of an
organization were those international innocents running?
  McCaskey was at the Interpol office in
Madrid. The former FBI agent had recently
helped his friend Luis Garcia de la Vega break
up the coup attempt and had stayed on to spend some
time with his injured associate Maria
Corneja. Security camera images of the
United Nations assault had been sent to Interpol
to see if any attacks in their files matched the
modus operandi of this team. Interpol had also been
sent a list of delegates and guests who attended
the Security Council reception. A half hour
before, McCaskey had forwarded that information to Herbert
in Washington. All of the attendees were
legitimate representatives of their nations though
that did not, of course, make them diplomats. For
over fifty years, innumerable spies, smugglers,
assassins, and drug runners had been slipped in
and out of the United States under the guise of being
diplomats.
  However, the United Nations had set a new
personal worst for not running checks on two of the
party guests.
  When they came to the UN just two days ago, they
had listed biographical data that could not be
corroborated in the files of any of the schools or
businesses they cited. Either there hadn't been time for
their government to hack those files and insert the data,
or the two didn't expect to be in New York
long enough to be found out. The question Herbert needed
to answer was, who were they?
  McCaskey had obtained their ID photos from
the deputy secretary-general of Administration and
Head of Personnel at the United Nations. When
they were E-mailed over, the Op-Center
intelligence chief ran the photographs through a
database comprised of images of more than twenty
thousand international terrorists, foreign agents, and
smugglers.
  The two attendees were in that file.
  Herbert read what little personal history was
available on the pairthe real history, not the fake
ones they'd given the United Nations. He didn't
know anything about the people who had taken over the
Security Council chamber, but he did know this:
However bad those five terrorists were, these two
could very well be worse. Herbert had been informed
by Striker that they were returning to Washington without
General Rodgers or Colonel August. He
didn't know where August could have gone, but he knew
that Rodgers was with Hood. With no. time to waste,
Herbert called Hood on his cell phone.
  New York, New York . Saturday,
11:34 P.m. Not once in its long history has
Cambodia known peace. Prior to the fifteenth
century, Cambodia was an expansive
military power. Under the martial rule of the mighty
Khmer emperors, the nation had conquered the entire
Mekong River Valley, governing the lands that
comprise modern-day Laos, the Malay
Peninsula[*thorngg'and part of Siam. However,
armies arose in unconquered sections of Siam and
in the state of Annam in central Vietnam.
Over the centuries that followed, these forces slowly
pushed the Khmer armies track until the monarchy
itself was threatened. In 1863, the desperate king of
Cambodia agreed to the formation of a French
protectorate over the country. A slow and steady
arms buildup reclaimed lost lands, though the gains
were forefeited when the Japanese occupied Indochina
during World War H. Self-government was restored
after the war, with Prince Norodom Sihanouk leading
the country. Sihanouk was ousted in 1970 in a
U.s. backed military coup led by General Lon
Nol. Sihanouk formed an exile government in
Beijing while the Communist Khmer Rouge fought a
civil war that overthrew Lon Nol in 1975.
Sihanouk was restored to power as part of a shaky
coalition government in what was now known as
Democratic Kampuchea. Sihanouk's prime
minister was the rabidly anti-Communist
Son Sann. Sann was a cold bastard. But
Sihanouk and his government were soon replaced by the more
moderate and ineffective Khieu Samphan, who
had as his prime minster the ruthless and ambitious
Pol Pot. Pol Pot was a Maoist who
believed that education was a curse and that returning to the
land could transform Cambodia into a utopia.
Instead, under his cruel hand, Cambodia became
synonymous with "the killing fields" as torture,
genocide, forced labor, and famine took the lives
of over two million people-one of every five
Cambodians. Pol Pot's rule lasted until
1979, when Vietnam invaded the nation. The
Vietnamese seized control of Phnom Penh and
established a Communist government led by Heng
Sarnrin. But Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge still
controlled vast areas of what was now called the People's
Republic of Kampuchea, and war continued
to ravage the land. The Vietnamese withdrew in
1989 after sustained guerrilla warfare took a
heavy toll on the occupation forces. Their withdrawal
left new Prime Minister Hun Sen to struggle
with groups that included the leftist Khmer Rouge, the
rightist Khmer Bleu, the Sihanouk National Army
loyal to the deposed prince, Lon
Nol's Khmer National Armed Forces, the Khmer
Loeu, which was comprised of ethnic hill tribes, and
Khmer Viet Minh, who were supported by Hanoi,
and nearly a dozen others.
  In 1991, with the nation's economy and
agriculture a shambles, the warring groups finally
signed an accord that agreed to a ceasefire,
widescale disarmament, and the presence of UN
peacekeeping forces as well as UN'-SUPERVISED
elections. A new coalition with Hun Sen's
  party was formed, which reestablished the monarchy and
placed Sihanouk on the throne as king. Feeling that
they were being forced to give up too much power, the Khmer
Rouge resumed fighting. The battle lost some of
its momentum in 1998 with the death of Pol Pot.
However, other senior Khmer Rouge officers and
cadres remained in the field and vowed to continue the
war.
  As a result of so many political and military
entities vying for power, secret government police
and rebel agents vied ferociously for intelligence
and weapons. Their needs gave rise to an
unprecedented underground network of spies, killers,
and smugglers. Some of these worked for what they believed
was the good of their homeland. Others worked
only for themselves. For nearly ten years,
thirtytwo-year-old Ty Sokha Sary and her
thirty-nine-year-old husband Hang Sary had
been counterterrorist operatives for the Khmer People's
National Liberation Armed Forces, the military
component of the Khmer People's National Liberation
Front. The KPNLF had been formed in March
1979 by former prime minister Son Sann.
Initially, their goal was to oust the Vietnamese from
Cambodia. When that had been accomplished, the
KPNLF turned to cleansing all foreign influence from
the nation. Even though Son Sann was named to the
Supreme National Council, which governed the nation
under Sihanouk, the leader privately opposed the
involvement of the United Nations. Sann was
especially opposed to the involvement of Chinese,
Japanese, and French soldiers. He did not
believe there could be such a thing as a benevolent
occupying army. Even if the soldiers were engaged in
peacekeeping, their very presence corrupted the nation's
character and strength.
  Ty and Hang agreed with Son Sann. And in
coming to Cambodia, one foreign officer had done more
than pollute their culture. He destroyed something
very personal to Hang. Ty Sokha
knelt over the body of the wounded American girl.
She couldn't be older than fourteen or fifteen.
The Cambodian woman had seen so many girls like
her, wounded or dying. And the dead. She had once
helped Amnesty International locate a mass
grave outside of Kampong Cham where over two
hundred decomposed bodies were buried, most of
them old women and very young children. Some of them had
antigovernment slogans painted or sometimes carved
on their bodies. Ty had also caused at least
three dozen deaths by leading Hang to enemy officers
or undercover operatives so that he could strangle them
or slip a stiletto into their hearts while they
slept. Sometimes Ty didn't bother to lead Hang
there. Sometimes she did the work herself.
  Like most military operatives who worked alone
or in pairs, Ty had been trained in field
medicine and was experienced in wound debridement.
Unfortunately, the first aid kit she'd been given
was inadequate for the task. There was no exit wound,
which meant the bullet was still inside. If the girl
moved, she could cause further damage. Ty used
the antiseptic to clean the small, round hole as
best she could. Then she covered it with gauze and
strips of tape. She worked carefully,
efficiently, but less dispassionately than usual.
Though Ty had long ago become desensitized
to terrorism and murder, this girl and the circumstances
of the attack were too painfully familiar.
  It was about Phum, of course, Hang's dear young
sister.
  As she worked, Ty thought back to the event that had
brought them to such an unlikely place. A place
so far from where they'd started.
  Ty had grown up in a tiny farming hamlet
midway between Phnom Penh and Kampot on the
Gulf of Thailand. Her parents died in a flood
when she was six years old, and she went to live with
second cousin Hang Sary and his family. Ty and
Hang adored one another, and it was always a given that
they would marry. Eventually, they did, right before leaving
on a mission together in 1990. They were alone save
for a priest and his son, in a thunderstorm that had blown
away the priest's hut. It was the happiest time of
Ty's life. Hang's father had been a very vocal
supporter of Prince Sihanouk, contributing
articles to the local newspaper about how the
prince's free market policies had helped
farmers. On a dark, muggy summer night in
1982, while Ty and Hang were in the
city, soldiers of Pol Pot's National Army of
Democratic Kampuchea came and carried
Hang's father, mother, and young sister off. Hang found
his parents two days later. His father was lying in a
gully beside a dirt road. His arms had been tied
behind his back, dislocating his shoulders. His feet and
knees had been broken so he couldn't walk or
crawl. Then his mouth had been packed with dirt and his
throat had been punctured so that he would slowly
bleed to death. His mother had been strangled before his
helpless father. Hang did not find his younger sister.
  Ty and Hang's world changed. Hang contacted
Son Sann's KPNLF, which supported the
prince. Hang told them he wanted to continue
writing the kinds of articles his father wrote, but not just
to promote Sihanouk. He wanted to draw the
NADK killers out and repay them
  for what they did to his family. Before allowing
Hang and Ty to use themselves as bait, the
KPNLF'S chief intelligence officer trained them
in the use of weapons. Two months later, the
small band of Khmer Rouge terrorists came to their
hut. Hang and Ty had planned well and cut them
down even before the KPNLF guard could summon
help.
  After that, the two were taught surveillance
techniques. Along the way, they also learned the art
of assassination. A CIA manual that had been
found in Laos taught them how to use hat pins,
rock-filled stockings, even stolen charge cards
to stab eyes, break necks, and slice throats.
They learned these skills to serve their country and also
in the hope that one day they would find the monster who had
ordered Phum's death.
  The monster who had eluded them because he was under the
protection of the Khmer Rouge.
  The monster who they had lost track of when he
left Cambodia, and who they had found again only
recently. The monster who was somewhere in this room.
  A monster named Ivan Georgiev.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:35 p.m.
  Hood felt lonely and scared as he rode the
elevator to the seventhfloor lounge of the State
Department. That was where the other parents were waiting.
There was no one else in the elevator; just his own
sorry reflection, distorted and tinted by the highly
polished gold-colored walls.
  If he weren't certain that security cameras were
watching him and that he'd end up getting
hauled away as a menace, Hood would have screamed
and thrown uppercuts at the air. He was deeply
worried about the rumors of a shooting, and he was
miserable being on the sidelines.
  The elevator door opened, and as Hood stepped
toward the security desk, his cell phone beeped.
He stopped walking and turned his back on the guard
before answering.
  "Yes?" he said.
  "Paul, it's Bob. Is Mike with you?"
  Hood knew Herbert's voice very well. The
intelligence chief was talking fast, which meant that he
was worried about something. "Mike went to see that
local office manager you told him about. Why?"
  Hood knew that Herbert would have to speak
  obliquely, since this was a potentially open
line. "Because there are two people in the target zone that he
needs to know about," Herbert said.
  "What kind of people?" Hood pressed.
"Heavy-duty rappers," Herbert replied.
  People with rap sheets, a long history of no good.
This was maddening. He had to know more.
  "Their presence and the timing could be a coincidence,"
Herbert said, "but I don't want to risk it.
I'll call Mike at the other office."
  Hood walked back to the elevator and pushed the
button. "I'll be there when you do," he said.
"What's the name?" "Doyle Shipping."
  "Thanks," Hood said as the elevator arrived.
He folded up the phone and stepped inside.
  Sharon would never forgive him for this. Never. And he
wouldn't blame her. She was not only alone among
strangers, but he was certain the State Department
wasn't telling the parents anything. But if the
terrorists had associates on the inside that no
one else knew about, he wanted to be on hand
to help Rodgers and August think things through.
  On the way down, Hood pulled his Op-Center
ID from his wallet. He hurried through the lobby
back to First Avenue and ran across the street and up
four blocks. He flashed the ID to an NYPD
guard who had been posted outside the United
Nations Plaza towers. Though the towers were not part of the
UN complex per se, a lot of delegates
maintained offices here. He went inside.
  Hood was breathless as he signed the security
register and went to the first bank of elevators that led
to the
  lower floors. He still wanted to scream and punch
the air. But at least he was going to get
involved in what was going on. At least he would have
something to focus on other than fear. Not hope, but
something almost as good.
  An offensive.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:36 P.m
  It was him.
  The flat voice, the cruel eyes, the arrogant
carriage-it was him, damn his soul. Ty Sokha
couldn't believe that after nearly ten years they had
found Ivan Georgiev. Now that she'd heard his
voice beneath the mask, been close enough to smell his
sweat, she knew which of these monsters it was.
  Several months before, an arms dealer named
Ustinoviks, who provided the Khmer Rouge with
weapons, had been asked to talk to Georgiev about
a buy. An informant with the Khmer Rouge knew that
Ty and Sary Hang were looking for him. The informant
sold them the name of the arms dealer. Though they had
missed the Bulgarian when he came to New York
to talk to Ustinoviks the first time, they managed to get
to Ustinoviks after Georgiev had gone. The offer
they made the Russian was simple: Let them know
when he was coming to pick up his weapons or they would
turn Ustinoviks over to the American
FBI.
  The Russian had let them know when Georgiev
was scheduled to pick up his purchase with the provision that
they didn't take him at that time. They agreed. As
it happened, they didn't want him then. They
wanted him
  doing whatever it was he'd come here for, when the rest
of the world could see, when they could draw attention to their
own people, put an end to the countless murders in which they'd
taken part as they tried to stop the Khmer Rouge and
undermine the pathetically weak government of Norodom
Sihanouk. They'd watched Georgiev's team
make their buy from the roof of the club next door to the
shop owned by Ustinoviks. Ty couldn't really see
him clearly then. Not as clearly as she had when
she'd been at the UN camp, working as a cook,
watching for Khmer Rouge infiltrators and seeing the
degrading things for which Georgiev was responsible.
But the government couldn't do anything without proof of
what was going on, and anyone who tried to get that
proofor who tried to get away, like poor Phum had
died. After Georgiev and his people made their arms
purchase, Ty and Hang followed them back to their
hotel. The adjoining rooms had been booked, so
they took the room beneath theirs. They ran a
wire through the ceiling fixture to the floor of his
room, attached a sound amplifier, and listened as
Georgiev and his allies reviewed their plans.
  Then they'd gone to the Permanent Mission of the
Kingdom of Cambodia across the street and waited.
Ty Sokha turned her large, dark eyes from the
stricken young girl lying beside her. The one who was
barely older than Phum had been when she'd been
murdered by one of Georgiev's thugs. Ty looked
over at Sary Hang, who was sitting on the
floor, inside the circular table. The
Cambodian operative had shifted his position
  slightly so that he could see Ty without seeming
to watch her. She nodded. He nodded back.
  When Georgiev came back down the stairs, it
would be time.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:37 P dism.
  Georgiev stopped when he reached the double doors
at the back of the Security Council chamber. He
was holding his automatic, though he didn't think
he would need it. Reynold Downer was standing to the right
of the doors. He had a weapon in either hand. "Are you
going to let her in?" Downer whispered. "No,"
Georgiev said. "I'm going out there." .
Georgiev could see that Downer was surprised, even
through his mask. "In God's name why?" "They need
a lesson in futility," Georgiev explained.
"Futility? They'll take you hostage!" Downer
said. The secretary-general spoke again. She asked
to be admitted.
  "They wouldn't take the chance," Georgiev told
Downer. "This will convince them they have no choice but
to cooperate, and quickly." "You're sounding like a
bloody diplomat now. What about them recognizing
your accent?"
  "I'll speak softly and deeply," Georgiev
said. "They'll probably assume I'm
Russian." Now that he thought of it, he would enjoy
it if this entire takeover were blamed on Moscow
or the Russian Mafia.
  "I don't agree with this," Downer said. "I
bloody don't." You wouldn't, Georgiev thought.
Downer only knew how to bully, not how to finesse.
  "I'll be all right," Georgiev said.
Slowly, he reached for the knob on the left-side
door. He turned and pushed the door open a
crack. Mala Chatterjee was standing there, her arms
straight at her sides, her shoulders and head
back. Behind her several paces was her head
of security. Beyond him, Georgiev could see a
few of the security guards with their blast shields.
  Chatterjee's face was calm but resolute; the
officer looked as though he wanted to snort fire.
Georgiev liked that in an adversary. It kept
one from becoming complacent. "I'd like to speak with you,"
Chatterjee said. "Tell everyone to step back,
past the council chambers," Georgiev said. He
didn't feel it was necessary to add that if anything
happened to him, the hostages would suffer. Chatterjee
turned and nodded to Colonel Mott. Mott
motioned for the rest of the security team to step away.
They did. Mott remained where he was.
  "Everyone," Georgiev said.
  "It's all right, Colonel," Chatterjee said
without turning. "Madam Secretary--
  "Go, please," she said firmly.
  Mott exhaled through his nose, then turned and
joined his security team. He stood nearly thirty
feet away, glaring at Georgiev. That was good,
Georgiev thought. She had just emasculated her
chief of security. The colonel now looked like he
wanted to draw his gun and put a bullet in
Georgiev. Chatterjee continued to stare at the
Bulgarian. "Now, you step back,"
Georgiev said.
  She seemed surprised. "You want me to step
back?" He nodded. She took three steps
back, then stopped. Georgiev opened the door
farther. Shields rose slightly as arms tensed behind
them. He could see a ripple of anxiety roll
across the security team. He hoped the
secretary-general could see, could feel how
impossible her position was. Talkers and poor,
untested schoolboys were all she had in her corner.
  Georgiev holstered his weapon and stepped through the
open door. Facing the security team, he shut the
door behind him. Slowly, fearlessly. He was
tempted to scratch his head or his side and watch them
jump. But he didn't. Just knowing they would was enough.
And more importantly, they knew it, too. They
knew who had more courage and who was more at ease.
Coming out here was the right thing to do. He looked at
Chatterjee.
  "What do you want?" he asked her.
  "I want to resolve this situation without further
bloodshed," she told him.
  "You can," he replied. "Give us what we
asked." "I'm trying," she said. "But the nations have
refused to pay."
  He had expected that. "Then someone else must
pay," he told her. "Let the United States
rescue the world again."
  "I can talk to them," she said, "but it will take
time."
  "You can have it," he said. "The price is one
life every hour." "No, please," Chatterjee said.
"I would like to suggest something. A moratorium.
I'll have a better chance of getting what you ask if
I can tell them you're cooperating."
  "Cooperating?" he said. "You're the one who's
wasting time." "But it will take hours, maybe days,"
she said. Georgiev shrugged a shoulder. "Then the
blood is on your hands, not on mine." The
secretary-general continued to look at him, though she
was less composed than before. Her breathing was faster,
her eyes more restless. That was good. He wanted
compliance, not a negotiation. Behind her, Georgiev
noticed the security chief shifting uneasily.
He must not have come from the UN command ranks. He had
the bearing of a tethered bull.
  Chatterjee looked down. She shook her head
slowly. She'd never had to deal with anything like this before.
He almost felt sorry for her. What does a
diplomat do when you keep saying no? "I
give you my word," she said. "Stop the killing. I
will get you everything you want."
  "You will get it for me anyway," he said.
Chatterjee looked at him. She seemed to be
searching for something else to say, but it had all been
said. Georgiev turned toward the door. "Don't
do this," Chatterjee said.
  He continued walking. He reached for the doorknob.
Chatterjee moved after him. "Don't you understand?
No one will benefit from this," she said. She grabbed his
arm in desperation.
  Georgiev stopped and wrenched his arm toward him.
The woman held on.
  "Listen to me!" she implored.
  So the peacemaker had claws. The big man
threw his arm back. Chatterjee fell against the
wall that stood out beyond the door. Georgiev tanned
back toward the door.
  There were footsteps behind him. Georgiev reached for
his automatic and turned just as an elbow came
swinging across his line of vision.
  His vision swirled red, the bridge of his nose and
his forehead were numb, and he was light-headed. He was
fighting to stay alert when a second blow turned
everything black.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:42 PM.
  "Something just happened," Mike Rodgers said
to Paul Hood. Rodgers was sitting at the computer
with Ani Hampton. Hood had arrived moments
before, still breathing hard from the run. Am had checked him
on the video surveillance camera at the door and
then buzzed him in. Rodgers wanted to know what had
brought Hood here, but what was happening with Mala
Chatterjee was what the military called "breaking
news." Ani had put the bug's audio on the
computer speakers. Even though the sound was being
recorded, he didn't want to miss a word of the very
faint conversation between the secretary-general and the
terrorist.
  "Paul Hood, Annabelle Hampton,"
Rodgers said, introducing them now that he found it
difficult to hear anything at all. Ani
acknowledged Hood with a quick look and a nod. She
seemed extremely intent on what was happening.
"We think something just happened outside the Security
Council," Rodgers told Hood. "One of the
terrorists came out to talk with the secretary-general.
From the sound of things, she shouted and then
someone-probably Colonel Mott of the
UN security team, who we
  believe was closest to her-apparently attacked the
terrorist. It sounds like they have him, but we can't be
certain. Everyone is being very quiet."
  They listened silently for a moment more. Then Hood
spoke. "This may not have anything to do with what's going
on," he said, "but I just got a call from Bob.
There are two people inside the Security Council
who've spent at least eight years with the
Cambodian Khmer People's National Liberation
Armed Forces. They started as coun-terterrorists
fighting the Khmer Rouge and then became assassins
working for Son Sann."
  Ani fired him a look.
  "They came into the country two days ago with the
permission of someone in their government, though their
backgrounds were intentionally obscured," Hood
continued. "The question is, are they there by chance, are they
working with the terrorists, or is something else going on
that we don't know about?" Rodgers shook his head as
there was another buzz at the door. Ani put the
surveillance image on the computer; it was Brett
August. Rodgers okayed him and Ani reached under
the table to buzz him in. Rodgers excused himself
to greet the Striker leader. As Rodgers
hurried to the office reception area, he reflected
on the fact that this was the kind of situation that hostage
negotiators in every country encountered every day. Some
of the crises were large-scale political events that
made the news; others were small and involved no more
than one or two people in an apartment or convenience
store. But all of them, wherever they were and whoever. was
involved, had one thing in common: volatility. In his
experience, battles could change
  quickly, but they tended to change en masse. They'd
pick up inertia and continue in one direction as the
participating armies surged and flowed.
  Hostage situations were different. They were
subject to hairtrigger fluidity. They lurched,
stalled, jerked, turned, and then ran in
unpredictable ways. And the more people that were involved, the
more likely that things would change dramatically at
any given moment. Especially if those people were a
mixture of frightened kids, fanatical
terrorists, single-minded assassins, and
diplomats whose only weapon was talk.
  Colonel August was sweaty and grease-stained
when he arrived. He saluted Rodgers, then
explained that he'd done a pencil roll from the
C-130's hydraulically operated
cargo ramp while it was being raised. Since it was
dark, no one saw him as he rolled tight and low
down the ramp. There was a four-foot drop from the
lip to the tarmac, and apart from a few bruises, the
colonel was okay. He was wearing a Kevlar
bulletproof vest under his sweatshirt and that had taken
some of the impact. Because August was a fully
equipped tourist, he'd had his wallet with him and enough
cash for the cab ride to Manhattan.
  Rodgers brought him up to date as they walked
to Ani's office. As they neared, August stopped
suddenly. "Hold on," August said quietly.
  "What's wrong?"
  "You've got a pair of Cambodian
assassins in the Security Council?" August
asked.
  "That's right."
  August thought for a moment, then nodded toward the
offices in back. "Did you know that your lady here
worked for the CIA in Cambodia?"
  "No," Rodgers said. He was openly
surprised. "Tell me about it." "I downloaded
her file on the flight over," August said. "She
recruited operatives in Cambodia for nearly a
year."
  Rodgers let his mind run through possible
scenarios, looking for possible connections. "She
signed in downstairs about fifteen minutes before the
attack began. She said she'd come here to catch up
on some work."
  "That could very well be true," August said. "It
could," Rodgers agreed. "But she got here early and
she has the ability to eavesdrop on the
secretary-general. She also has a TACSAT in
the office."
  "Not standard CIA office issue," August
said. "No," Rodgers agreed. "Sounds like a
nice setup if you want to pass intel to people who are
involved in this takeover."
  "But which side of the takeover?" August asked.
"I don't know," Rodgers said.
  "Is the TACSAT turned on?" August
asked. "Can't tell. It's in a sack."
  August snickered. "You spend too much time behind
a desk. Roll up your sleeves."
  "What do you mean?" Rodgers asked.
  "Get the back of your arm near the unit,"
August said. "I still don't follow."
  "The hair. Static electricity," August
told him. "Shit," Rodgers said.
"You're right."
  An insulated piece of equipment, when
active, would generate an electric
discharge-static electricity. That would cause the
hairs on his arm to stand up when he got close.
  Rodgers nodded, and they continued toward the office.
Neither man was an alarmist. But from the start of their
careers, with anywhere from one life to thousands of lives
hanging on any decision they made, neither man had
ever been complacent. And as Rodgers turned into the
office, he reminded himself of something that the CIA had
learned the hard way. That volatility didn't always
come from the outside.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:43 r.m
  For a moment, the silence in the corridor outside
the Security Council was absolute. Then
Secretary-General Chatterjee pushed herself off the
wall where she'd been flung. She looked from the
prone terrorist to Colonel Mott.
  "You had no right to do that!" she whispered harshly.
"You were attacked," he whispered back. "It's my
job to protect you." "I grabbed him-was
  "It doesn't matter," Mott said. He
pointed to two of the men on the security line
and motioned them forward. Then he turned back
to Chatterjee. "We're in this now." "Against my
wishes!" she shot back.
  "Ma'am, we can discuss this later," Mott said.
"We don't have much time."
  "For what?" she demanded.
  The two men arrived. "Strip him," Mott said
quietly, pointing to the terrorist. "Fast."
  They got to work.
  "What are you doing?" Chatterjee said.
  The colonel began unbuttoning his own shirt.
"Going in there," he said. "As him."
  Chatterjee seemed stunned. "No.
Absolutely not."
  "I can pull this off," he said. "We're about the
same size." "Not without my authority," she said.
  "I don't need your authority," he replied as
he removed his shirt and took off his shoes.
"Section 13Can, subsection 4, of the security
regulations. In the event of a direct threat against the
secretary-general, all appropriate
precautions must be taken. He struck you. I saw
it. Now the fiber-optic camera is not getting through
for some reason. We're coming up on another hour,
and a child may be hurt in there. Help me end
this situation, ma'am. Did he have an accent?"
  "They're going to find you out."
  "Not soon enough," Mott said. He was aware of
every second passing, wondering how long the terrorists
inside were going to wait for their man to return.
Fearing what they might do to get him back. "Now
please," Mott pressed. "Did he have an
accent?" "Eastern European, I believe,"
Chatterjee said. She seemed dazed. Mott
looked down as one of his men removed Georgiev's
mask. "Do you recognize him?"
  Chatterjee looked at the beefy, unshaven
face. There was blood on the thick bridge of the
nose. "No," she said softly. "Do you?" Mott
looked from the fallen man to the Security Council
door. "No." Whether it was his own anxiety or the
instincts of an old undercover cop, he felt tension
from inside the chamber. He had to defuse it before it
exploded. The colonel motioned for his man to give
him the mask. He pulled it over his head, then
stooped and wiped some of the blood from Georgiev's
nose onto the
  mouth of the mask. "Now I don't have to do any
accent," he said. Chatterjee watched as he quickly
finished pulling on the man's sweater,
trousers, and shoes.
  "Get everyone into the Trusteeship Council
chambers," the colonel said to his
second-in-command, Lieutenant Mailman.
"I want you at the adjoining doors, fast but
stealthy. Form two groups: a defensive perimeter
and a team to get the hostages out. Go in when you hear
gunfire." Mott picked up Georgiev's
automatic and checked the clip. It was nearly
full. "I won't fire until I'm in position
to take out one or more of the terrorists. I'll try and
stay on the north side to draw their fire away from
you. You know how they're dressed; take them out. Just
make sure you don't shoot the guy who's shooting
at them."
  "Yes, sir," the officer replied.
  "Ma'am, I'd get Interpol in here to find out
who this individual is." Mott practically spit
out the word. "If something goes wrong, the information may
help you stop them."
  "Colonel, I'm against this," Chatterjee said.
The secretary-general had collected herself and was
growing angry. "You're risking the lives of everyone
in the room."
  "Everyone in there is going to die unless
we get them out," he replied. "Isn't that what this
person told you?" He indicated Georgiev with his
foot. "Isn't that why you tried to stop him from going
back?"
  "I wanted to stop the killing-was
  "And he didn't give a damn what you
wanted," Colonel Mott said in a raspy
whisper.
  "No, he didn't," she agreed. "But I can still
go in there, try to talk to the others."
  "Not after this," Mott said. "They'll want to know
where their man is. What will you tell them?"
  "The truth," she said. "It might persuade them
to cooperate. Perhaps we can even give him back in
exchange for hostages." "We can't," Mott said.
"We may need him for information. And whatever else
happens, this bastard's got to stand trial." Mott
had always admired Chatterjee's persistence. Right
now, though, it seemed more naive than visionary.
  While the lieutenant formed his two teams, the
colonel signaled over the emergency medical
team. They placed the fallen terrorist on a
stretcher and used handcuffs from one of the security
officers to keep him there.
  "Take him over to the infirmary, and
keep him handcuffed to the cot," Mott told the head
emergency medical technician. The lieutenant
signaled Mott that he was ready to go. Colonel
Mott signaled back thirty with his fingers. He
looked at his watch as Lieutenant Mailman's
two teams headed into the Trusteeship Council
chamber. Then he started marking off thirty
seconds. "Colonel, please," Chatterjee
said. "I can't go in if you do." "I know," he said.
Twentyfive seconds to go. "But this is a
mistake!" she said, raising her voice for the first
time.
  There was a creak at the Security Council
door, as though someone had leaned against it.
Chatterjee immediately fell silent. Mott looked
from the door to Chatterjee to his watch. Twenty
seconds remained.
  "It's only a mistake if it fails,"
Colonel Mott said quietly. "Now, please,
Madam Secretary-General. There's no time
to debate this. Just step back so you won't be
hurt."
  "Colonel-was she started, then stopped. "God be
with you," she said. "God be with you all."
  "Thank you," Mott replied. There were
fifteen seconds to go. Reluctantly,
Chatterjee backed away.
  Colonel Mott turned his attention to what he
was about to do. He could taste the terrorist's blood
through the mask. There was something appropriately
barbaric, Viking about it. He stuck the terrorist's
gun in his belt, where it had been when he came out.
Then he flexed and unflexed his gloved fingers,
anxious to get in there and do his job.
  Ten seconds.
  Twenty-odd years ago, when he was an NYPD
cadet at the academy on Twentieth Street and
Second Avenue, a strategy and tactics
instructor told him that the job really came down
to dice. Every police officer, every soldier, had a
die with six pips. The pips were resolve,
skill, ruthlessness, ingenuity, courage, and strength.
Most of the time, you practice-rolled. You trained,
you walked a beat, you patrolled the street, trying
to get the wrist action right, the finesse, the feel.
Because when it came time to roll for real, you had to come
up with more of those qualities than the other guy,
sometimes in an instant. Mott remembered that during
his twenty years in Midtown South. He
remembered it each time he went to an
apartment with no idea what was on the other side of the
door, or stopped a car without knowing what was hidden
under the newspaper lying next to the driver. He
  remembered it now. He brought up every reflex that
was stored in his memory, in his bones, in his soul.
And for good measure, he threw in the words of one of the
original Mercury astronauts, he forgot which one,
who said, as he waited to be launched into space:
"Dear God. Please don't let me screw this
up. was Five seconds.
  Alert and ready, Mott walked toward the door
of the Security Council. He moaned, as though
he'd been hit and was hurting. He yanked open the
door and stepped inside.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:48 P.m.
  Telephones were put at the disposal of the parents
when they arrived at the State Department lounge.
Selecting an armchair in the corner of the brightly
lighted lounge, Sharon's first call had been
to Alexander back at the hotel. She wanted
to make sure he was all right. He was fine, though
she suspected he'd stopped playing video games
and had accessed the room's SpectraVision
channel. Alexander always sounded edgy when
he was playing video games, as though the fate of the
galaxy rested on his shoulders. When she called
around eleven o'clock he sounded awestruck and humbled.
Like Charlton Heston when he saw the burning bush
in The Ten Commandments.
  Sharon let him be. She didn't even tell
him what was going on. She had a feeling that
Alexander would be sleeping very well tonight.
Hopefully, it would all be over in the morning before
he woke. Then she called her home answering
machine. She wasn't going to call her parents
unless they'd seen the news report and left a
message. They were not in the best of health, and they were
worriers. She didn't want to burden them.
  But her mother had phoned. She had seen the news
flash, so Sharon called her back. She told her
mother
  what she'd been told, that officials were trying
to negotiate a solution and that there was no other
news. "What does Paul think?" her mother asked.
  "I don't know, Mom," Sharon replied.
"What do you mean?" "He went off with one of the
military people from the UN and hasn't come back
yet," Sharon said. "He's probably trying
to help," her mother said. Sharon wanted
to say, He's always trying to help-them. Instead, she
said, "I'm sure that's what he's doing."
  Her mother asked how she was doing. Sharon said that she
and the other parents were holding tight to hope, and that was
all they could do. She promised to call if anything
else happened. Thinking of Paul and his devotion
to them upset her. She wanted her daughter back and
was willing to make any sacrifice to save her. But
she knew that Paul would be doing this even if
Harleigh weren't inside. Sharon hadn't cried very
much since this began, but that pushed her over the rim.
  She turned from the other parents and wiped tears
away as they formed. She tried to convince herself that
Paul was doing this for Harleigh. And even if he
weren't, whatever he did would help her. But she
felt so alone now. And not knowing what was happening,
how her baby was, made her angry again. The least
Paul could do was call her. Tell her what was
happening.
  Then she thought of something. Taking a tissue from her
purse, Sharon blew her nose and picked up the
phone. Paul still had his cell phone with him. She
punched in his number, finding strength in anger that had
not come in reflection.
  New York, New York
Saturday, 11:49 P.m.
  Ty Sokha continued to squat beside the girl on the
floor. There was nothing more she could do for her, but then
she hadn't come here to save lives. Taking care of the
girl had done one thing and one thing only: It had
enabled her to establish which of these men was Ivan
Georgiev. Which of them owned the voice she had
heard in the UN camp as it ushered customers in and
out of tents. Which of them had ordered his aide
to pursue and shoot Phum when she tried to escape.
In case Ty and Hang could not get all the
terrorists, they wanted to make sure they got him.
  Ty had a compact 9mm Browning High Power
handgun in her purse. Hang had one in a holster
hooked to the back of his belt. The weapons had been
smuggled past UN security in diplomatic
pouches. Between the two of them, they'd get the bastard
in a cross fire and then take down the rest of the
terrorists. Not only would they have their revenge, not
only would they be seen as heroes for rescuing the
hostages, but their cause-a strong, right-wing
Cambodia under Son Sannwd acquire worldwide
attention. Injustice would end. The Khmer Rouge
would finally be hunted down and de stroyed.
Cambodia would be free to become an
Asian political and financial power.
  But all of that depended on what happened next.
Ty was sorry she'd let Georgiev go, but she
hadn't expected him to leave. And she didn't
want to fire on her own without identifying him
to Hang, in case the other terrorists managed
to bring her down. Ty opened her purse and removed
a silk handkerchief. She left her purse open
on the floor as she dabbed the forehead of the wounded
girl. The butt of the Browning was pointing toward her.
When she replaced the handkerchief, she took the
opportunity to unlock the safety. She was getting
anxious. She hoped the miserable creature didn't
negotiate a deal with Secretary-General
Chatterjee. Ty grew quietly furious with herself
for not having taken him out when she had the chance. He
had been standing right next to her. She might have died,
but she would have died knowing how proud Hang and the spirits of
his family were of her.
  Suddenly, one of the double doors flew open at the
top of the stairs on the opposite side of the
chamber. The terrorist who had been standing behind it
jumped to the side as Georgiev stormed back in.
The Bulgarian was holding the lower part of his mask.
He slammed the door shut, drew his
pistol, and shook it angrily at the door. Then
he turned and stalked past his associate. When the
other man tried to follow, Georgiev motioned for
him to remain where he was. Then he half-walked,
halfstumbled down the stairs. He seemed a little
groggy, as though he'd been struck. He did not
look happy. That was good. According to the doctrine of the
elders in the Theravada Buddhist faith, a man
who died un happy remained so in the next life.
Ty felt that Georgiev deserved no less.
  The Bulgarian was holding his gun. He stopped
midway down the stairs and rubbed his chin. He
seemed to waver. The man at the top of the steps
came toward him. So did one of the men at the
bottom of the steps.
  Damn, Ty thought. It had to be now. Soon there
would be three of them in one place; she might not have a
clear shot. She looked at Hang. He was
obviously thinking the same thing. She reached into her
purse as Hang rose. He drew his weapon from the
holster and turned toward his target. Ty slipped
her own handgun free and followed his lead. Hang
fired first, putting three shots into Georgiev before
the others arrived. One bullet missed, but two red
blotches popped from his forehead, and the
Bulgarian was flung backfirst against the wall.
He slid straight to the ground, dragging three long
red smears down the green and gold wallpaper. The
couple began running foward, seeking cover on the
stairwell. The two other men on the stairs
stopped, ducked behind the chairs, and swung their guns
toward the shootists. The two terrorists on the other
side of the chamber also ducked and aimed at the
attackers. As they did, the door that led to the
Trusteeship Council chamber opened. Four
members of the United Nations security force rushed
in. There was a heart-stopping moment when the only
sounds were the sobbing of children. The two Cambodians
turned to see who was behind them, and the terrorists paused
to aim at the nearest targets.
  The distraction enabled the terrorists beside
Georgiev along the south wall to fire at Ty and
Hang. The Cam bodians were crouched near the
wall at the foot of the gallery and went down.
Hang took a bullet in the shoul-der, Ty in the
thigh. Ty twisted and fell silently onto her
back; Hang went to his hands and knees and
screamed, though his cry was cut short by a head shot.
The bullet came in at an angle from the front and
dropped him flat on the floor.
  Ty had lost her handgun when she fell and was
reaching for it when a second shot caught her in the
upper arm and a third struck her in the belly. She
reached for her abdomen, stopping suddenly when a fourth
shot cracked through the top of her skull. It took
slightly more than a second for the Cambodians
to fall and die. But their presence had confused the
UN police, who weren't sure whether to fire at
them or not. The delay enabled the terrorists on the
north side of the chamber to turn, aim, and fire
straight down the stairs, at the door. One
security officer went down, shot through the leg, and
had to be pulled out. The other three who had entered
squatted and returned fire to cover the withdrawal.
Noticing the wounded girl, one of the men grabbed her
under the arms and dragged her back.
  One of the terrorists on the southern side of the
chamber went down. He rolled down several steps
before his head struck one of the chairs. One of the UN
officers was shot in the face and simply fell over.
The room was an echo chamber of thundercrack shots and
screams as the terrorists battled the UN police
and the hostages cried out. Many of those who were screaming
were trying to duck and at the same time attempting
to keep other panicked hostages from running
madly into the line of fire. The firefight ended when
the UN forces withdrew and
  the door to the Trusteeship Council chamber
crashed shut. The gunshots stopped but not the
screaming. Nor the sense of madness that, for a few
deadly seconds, seemed to infect everyone in the
chamber.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:50 P.m.
  Reynold Downer lay Georgiev's bloody
body down while Etienne Vandal knelt over
him.
  "You better go back to the door," Vandal said.
"They may try to come in again."
  "I will," Downer said. He pulled his bloodred
gloves from under Georgiev and looked across the
room. The smaller of the two terrorists was running
down the stairs. That meant Sazanka had taken the
hit. Downer watched as Barone bent over him. The
Uruguyan stood and dragged a finger across his
throat. Their pilot was dead. Downer swore. So
did Vandal. Downer looked down. Vandal had
removed Georgiev's mask. Only it wasn't
Georgiev who was lying on the landing.
  "Then they've got him," Downer said.
"I thought I heard noise out there. The bastards have
got him." He spit on the American-looking
face that lay lifeless on the carpet.
  Vandal pulled back the man's glove and felt
for a pulse. He dropped the man's wrist.
"He's dead." Vandal looked down at the bodies
lying near the gallery. "Those were UN security
police who came in, and I'll bet this man was with
them. But who were those other two?"
  "Probably undercover police," Downer said.
"Working security for the party."
  "Then why didn't they move sooner?" Vandal
wondered aloud. "Try and save the delegates?"
  "Maybe they sent some kind of silent signal for
reinforcements," Downer said. "They were just waiting."
"I don't think so," Vandal said. "They almost
seemed surprised when they saw the United Nations
team come in."
  Downer went back up the stairs, and Vandal
turned and hurried down the steps. He was worried
about the doors, though he didn't really think there would
be another attack now. The UN forces had gotten
hurt. They took away the wounded girl, but he
didn't think that was their objective. They came in
looking like they wanted to establish a
beachhead. Four in with reinforcements waiting to move
through the center. Why didn't the reinforcements pull the
girl out? The firefight had put the hostages low
on the floor or sent them ducking under the table.
Vandal would leave them where they were for now. There was a
lot of sobbing and whimpering, but everyone had been
rattled by the attack. No one was going anywhere.
Vandal reached the two people who had been killed at the
foot of the gallery. They were Asian. He
squatted and checked the pockets of the man's
jacket. He had a Cambodian passport.
There was a connection, at least. Georgiev was into a
number of unsavory businesses during the UNTAC
operation, from spying to prostitution. Maybe this was
supposed to be some kind of payback. But how did
they know he was here?
  Barone had come over. Vandal dropped the
passport and rose.
  "Is he dead?" Barone asked, nodding toward
Georgiev. "It isn't him," Vandal said.
,"What?"
  "They got him when he went out," Vandal said.
"Made a switch." "Who would have thought they had the
cajones?" Barone said. "That could be why the security
team came in. They were following their
man's lead."
  "Very possibly," Vandal said.
  Barone shook his head. "If he gives them
information about the bank accounts, then even if we get
out of here with the money, they'll take it right back."
  "Agreed," Vandal said.
  "So what do we do?" Barone asked.
  "We still have what they want," Vandal said, thinking
aloud. "And we still have the means to kill the hostages
if the security forces come in again. So I suggest
we stick to our plan with two differences."
  "What?" Barone asked.
  Vandal turned toward the conference table. "We
tell them we want cash," he said as he walked
forward, "and we speed up the clock." His eyes
moved from the empty seat where the girl who ran had
been sitting. They settled on Harleigh Hood.
There was something about her, something defiant, that hit him
wrong. He told Barone to get her.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:51 P.m.
  The audio bug in the corridor picked up the
shots from the Security Council chamber. The
reports were muffled, as were the shouts in the
corridor, but it was clear to Paul Hood
and the others that one side or the other had made a
move. The shouts continued after the gunfire had
stopped.
  Hood was standing behind Ani. Except for swinging
over to a laptop on another desk to try and boost
the audio quality, she said-the young agent had stayed
at her post. She was calm and very focused. August
was standing to Hood's left. Rodgers had removed his
jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and had pulled a
chair from the other desk. He had asked for, and was
given, a book of blueprints of the United
Nations. Hood had a look at the book over
Rodgers's shoulder. The FBI had obviously
assembled the blueprints in order to plant
primitive eavesdropping devices in
structural materials back in the 1940's.
Updated notations on the pages suggested that the
CIA also used the blueprints to program routes
for their mobile bugs.
  On the floor near where Rodgers had pulled his
chair was an upright canvas case. The zippered
bag was open on top, and Hood could see a
TACSAT phone inside.
  As Hood stood there listening, he heard his cell
phone beep. He assumed it was Bob
Herbert or Ann Farris with information. Hood
slipped the phone from his pocket. Mike Rodgers
rose and came over. "Hello?" Hood said.
"Paul, it's me." "Sharon," Hood said.
Christ, not now, he thought. Rodgers stopped.
Hood turned his back to the room. "I'm sorry,
hon," Hood said quietly. "I was on my way
up to see you when something happened. Something that had to do
with Mike."
  "He's here?"
  "Yes," Hood said. He wasn't really
listening to the phone. He was trying to hear what was
happening in the Secretariat Building. "Are you
holding up okay?" he asked.
  "You've got to be kidding," she said. "Paul,
I need you." "I know," he said. "Look, we're
in the middle of something here. We're trying to get
Harleigh and the others out. Can I call you back?"
  "Sure, Paul. Just like always." Sharon hung
up. Hood felt like he'd been slapped. How could
two people be so close one night, then be totally
unconnected the next day? But he didn't feel
guilty. He felt angry. He was doing this to try
and save Harleigh. Sharon wasn't happy being
alone, but that wasn't what the hangup was
about. It was about the fact that Op-Center had
separated them again.
  Hood folded his phone and put it away. Mike
placed a hand on Hood's shoulder.
  Suddenly, they heard Chatterjee's voice
clearly.
  "Lieutenant Mailman, what happened?" the
secretary-general asked. "Someone shot Colonel
Mott before the rest of the team went in," he said
breathlessly. "He may be dead." "No,"
Chatterjee said while he was still speaking. "God,
no."
  "They killed ore of my people and then we got one
of the terrorists before withdrawing," the lieutenant went
on. "We also pulled a girl out. She'd been
shot. There was no way we could get in without taking a
lot of casualties."
  Hood felt his knees weaken.
  "I'll find out who it is," Rodgers said.
"Don't call Sharon. You may worry her for
nothing."
  "Thanks," Hood said.
  Rodgers went to the office phone and called Bob
Herbert. In order to keep track of known
terrorists and underworld figures-many of whom
were regularly hurt in explosions, car accidents,
or gunfights-Op-Center had a program that was
connected with all the big-city hospitals and
interfaced with the Social Security Administration.
Whenever a social security number was entered on a
hospital computer, it was checked against
Op-Center's database to make sure that the
person wasn't someone the FBI or police were
looking for. In this case, Herbert would have Matt
Stoll check on everyone who was admitted to a
UN'-AREA New York hospital in the last
half hour.
  The conversation continued in the Secretariat. "You
did the right thing pulling out," Chatterjee said.
"There's something else," the lieutenant said. "Two
of the delegates were armed and firing."
  "Which two?" Chatterjee said.
  "I don't know," the lieutenant replied.
"One of the team members who got a good look said it
was an Asian man and woman." "It could be
Japan, South Korea, or Cambodia,"
Chatterjee said. "Both of the delegates were killed
by the terrorists." "Who were the delegates shooting
at?" Chatterjee asked. "Believe it or not, they
were firing at Colonel Mott," he
replied. "At the colonel?" she said. "They must
have mistaken him for-was "The terrorist he
replaced," the lieutenant said. A radio beeped
as the lieutenant was speaking. Chatterjee answered
it. "This is Secretary-General Chatterjee."
  "That was stupid and reckless," said the voice on the
other end. The man's voice was scratchy and faint
and spoken with an accent, but Hood was able to make out
most of what was being said. Concentrating on that was a
welcome distraction from thinking about the wounded girl.
  "I'm sorry for what happened," Chatterjee
said. "We tried to reason with your partner-was
  "Don't try and make this our fault!" the
caller snapped. "No, it was all mine-was
  "You knew the rules, and you ignored them," he
said. "Now we have new instructions for you." "First
tell me," Chatterjee said. "What is the condition
of our officer?"
  "He's dead."
  "Are you sure?" Chatterjee implored.
  There was a shot. "Now I am," the caller
replied. "Do you have any other questions?" he asked.
"No," Chatterjee said. "You can come and get him
when we're gone," said the terrorist. "How soon that
happens is up to you." There was a short,
painful silence. "Go ahead," Chatterjee said.
"I'm listening."
  "We want the helicopter with six million
American dollars," he said. "We want cash,
not transfers. You have our man; he may tell you
our names. I don't want our accounts frozen.
Let us know when the helicopter is here. We will
resume the killing in eight minutes and again every half
hour. Only this time we won't be killing
delegates. We'll continue on the young ladies."
  Hood realized he had never known hate until
that instant. "Oh please, no!" Chatterjee
cried.
  "You made this happen," the caller said.
  "Listen to me," Chatterjee said. "We'll get
what you want but there must be no more killing. There has
been too much already." "You have eight minutes."
  "No! Give us a few hours!" Chatterjee
implored. "We'll cooperate with you. Hello?
Hello!"
  All was quiet. Hood could imagine the depth
of the secretary-general's frustration.
  August shook his head. "The troops ought to go
back in now, hit them fast when they don't expect
it."
  "We ought to go in," Hood said.
  "They said they'll release poison gas," Ani
told them. "But they didn't during the first
assault," August said. "Hostage-takers want
to live. That's why they've
  got hostages. They won't give up that
advantage." Rodgers turned from the phone. "It
wasn't Harleigh who was shot," he said. "The
girl's name is Barbara Mathis."
  Everything was relative. Harleigh was still a
prisoner, and one of her ensemble mates was injured.
Yet relief washed over Hood from the inside out.
  Despite the fact that Harleigh was still in there,
Hood had to agree with August. The men in the
Security Council chambers were not suicide
bombers or political terrorists. They were
pirates, here for plunder. They wanted to get out
alive. After a moment, Chatterjee informed the
lieutenant that she was going to the infirmary. She
wanted to talk to the captured terrorist. There was no
further audio after the secretary-general left.
  "She's out of range of the bug," Ani said.
Rodgers looked at his watch. "We've got
less than seven minutes," he said sharply.
"What can we do to stop them?" "There isn't
enough time to go to the Security Council and get
inside," August said.
  "You've been listening to this for nearly five
hours," Rodgers said to Ani. "What do you think?"
  "I don't know," she said. "Guess,"
Rodgers pressed. "They're leaderless," she said.
"There's no telling what they might do now."
  "How do you know that?" Hood asked. She looked
at him. "That they're leaderless?" he said.
  "Who else would have gone out to talk for them?" she
asked.
  The phone rang, and Ani picked up. It was
Darrell McCaskey for Rodgers. Am passed
him the phone. Something else passed between Rodgers
and the woman as well. A disapproving look. Or was
it doubt?
  The conversation was short. Rodgers stood there saying
very little as Darrell McCaskey briefed him. When
he was finished, he handed the receiver back to Ani.
She turned and lay it in the cradle. "UN
Security fingerprinted the captured terrorist,"
Rodgers said. "Darrell just got the intel."
Rodgers looked back at Ani. He leaned over
her chair, his hands on the armrests. "Talk to me,
Ms. Hampton."
  "What?" she said.
  "Mike, what is it?" Hood asked.
  "The terrorist's name is Colonel Ivan
Georgiev," Rodgers said. He was still looking
down at Ani. "He served with UNTAC in
Cambodia. He also worked with the CIA in
Bulgaria. Did you ever hear of him?" "Me?"
Ani asked. "Y."
  "No," she said.
  "But you know something about this that we don't,"
Rodgers said. less-than 'ationo
  "You're lying," Rodgers said.
  "Mike, what's going on?" Hood asked.
  "She came to the office before the attack,"
Rodgers said. He moved closer to Ani. "To work,
you said." "That's right."
  "You're not dressed for work," Rodgers said. "I
was stood up," she said. "That's.why I came here.
I had reservations at Chez Eugenie, you can
check. Hey, I don't know why I have to defend
myself to"
  "Because you're lying," Rodgers said. "Did you know
this was going to happen?"
  "Of course not!" she said.
  "But you knew something was going to happen,"
Rodgers said. "You served in Cambodia.
Colonel Mott was killed by a pair of
Cambodians posing as delegates to the United
Nations. Did they think they were shooting Ivan
Georgiev?"
  "How the hell should I know?" Ani cried.
  Rodgers shoved the chair back. It rolled across
the tile floor and slammed into a filing cabinet.
Ani started to rise, and Rodgers pushed her back
down.
  "Mike!" Hood shouted.
  "We don't have time for this bullshit, Paul,"
Rodgers said. "Your daughter could be the next one
they kill!" He glared down at Ani. "Your
TACSAT is on. Who were you calling?" "My
superior in Moscow--"Call him now," Rodgers
said. She hesitated.
  "Call him now!" Rodgers yelled. Ani
didn't move. "Who's on the other end of that
line?" Rodgers demanded. "Was it the
Cambodians, or is it the terrorists?" Ani
said nothing. Her hands were on the armrests. Rodgers
slapped one of his hands on top of hers. She
couldn't move it. He pushed a thumb under her index
finger and bent it back. She screamed and
reached over with her other hand to try and pry him off.
He used his free hand to shove her hand back to the
armrest and kept up his pressure on the other.
  "Who's on the other end of the goddamn phone?"
Rodgers yelled. "I told you!"
  Rodgers bent the finger back until the nail was
nearly touching the wrist. Ani screamed.
  "Who's on the other end?" Rodgers pressed.
"The terrorists!" Ani cried. "It's the
terrorists!" Hood felt sick. "Are there any
other outside units besides you?" Rodgers demanded.
"No!"
  "What are you supposed to do next?" Rodgers
asked. "Tell them if the money's really being
delivered," she said. Rodgers released her hand.
He rose.
  Hood was staring at the young woman. "How could you
help them? How?"
  "We don't have time for that now," Rodgers said.
"They're going to kill someone else in three
minutes. The question is how do we stop them?"
  "By paying them," August said. Rodgers looked
at him. "Explain." "We get Chatterjee's
number from Op-Center," August said. "We ask
her to get on the radio to tell the
terrorists she has the money. Then our lady here
corroborates that. We contact the NYPD, get
a chopper over there like they asked for, and have a SWAT
unit take them when they come out."
  "They'll come out, but with hostages," Hood said.
"We're going to have to risk the hostages at some
point," August said. "At least this way we'll
save more than we could in the Security Council-and
one of them for sure."
  "Do it," Hood said, glancing at his watch.
"Fastcom"
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:55
  Secretary-General Chatterjee raced down the
escalator to the infirmary, which was located on the first
floor not far from the visitor's lobby. An aide
had joined her at the foot of the escalator and was
walking with her. Enzo Donati was a young graduate
student from Rome who was earning credits for his
degree in international relations. He had her cell
phone and he was in touch with the New York office of
Interpol. They had learned that the prisoner's name was
Ivan Georgiev, a former officer in the
Bulgarian army. The Bulgarian ambassador
had not been at the soiree and had been
notified.
  Chatterjee passed through the Delegates Only
doorway near the Hiroshima exhibit and made
her way along the brightly lighted corridors. She
tried not to think of the loss of Colonel Mott or
the other security personnel, or of the deaths of the
delegates. She focused on the approach of
midnight, on the impending death of one of the young
violinists, and how to avoid it. Chatterjee had it
in mind to offer Georgiev a deal. If he would
urge his accomplice to postpone the shooting, and help
to defuse the situation, she would do what she could to get
him clemency. Chatterjee assumed, of course, that
Georgiev was even
  awake. She hadn't spoken to the emergency
medical people since they'd brought him down here. If
not, she didn't know what she was going to do. They had
less than five minutes. Molt's military
approach had been repulsed, and her own
diplomatic efforts had failed. Cooperation was an
option, but the six million dollars they asked for
would take time to put together. She had called
Deputy Secretary-General Takahara and asked
him to sit down with the other members of the emergency team
to figure out how to do that. She knew that even
if they paid, there would still be further bloodshed. The
NYPD or the FBI would move in as soon as the
terrorists tried to leave. But at least there was a
chance that they could still get some of the delegates and young
violinists away safely.
  Why did international crises seem so much more
manageable than this? Because the ramifications were so
severe? Because there were two or more sides where no one
really wanted to pull the trigger? If that were true,
then she really wasn't a peacemaker. She was
simply a medium, like a telephone or even one of
her father's movies. She may have come from the land of
Gandhi but was nothing like him. Nothing.
  They turned a corner and approached the door to the
infirmary. Enzo slipped ahead of the
secretary-general and opened it for her. Chatterjee
walked in. She stopped abruptly. Two
EMT'S were lying on the floor in the reception
area. The attending nurse was also lying on the
floor, in the doctor's office. So were a pair of
security guards. Enzo ran to the nearest bodies.
There were spots of blood on the tile. The
technicians were alive but unconscious,
evidently from blows to the head. The nurse was also
unconscious.
  There were no tears in their clothes, no indication that
there had been a struggle.
  There was no trace of the handcuffs and no sign of
Georgiev. As Chatterjee took a moment
to process what had happened, there was only one
conclusion to be drawn: that someone had been here
waiting.
  New York, New York Saturday,
11:57 P.m.
  Hood called Bob Herbert and told him to get
them Chatterjee's mobile phone number. While
Hood held the line, Rodgers bound Ani
Hampton to her chair. He used black
electrical tape he'd found in the supply
closet to tie her left wrist to the armrest. There
had been packaging twine on the shelf, but using
tape was a habit from field interrogations: it
didn't leave marks or tear the skin, and it was
tougher to work lose. Rodgers had also found several
handguns and other CIA field gear in the closet.
The guns were locked in a metal gun rack. After
binding Ani, Rodgers took the key case from her
blazer, which was hanging in the closet. CIA
regulations required that whoever was in charge of a shell
have access to the "selfdefense matbriel."
Rodgers found the key that unlocked the rack and
took a pair of Berettas for himself and another
pair for August. Each handgun held a clip with a
fifteen-shell capacity. He also grabbed a pair
of point-to-point radios along with a brick of
C-4 and detonators. He put the
explosives in a foam-lined backpack and slung
it over one shoulder. It wasn't the usual Striker
kitnight vision glasses and Uzis would be ideal-but
it would have to do. He hoped he didn't need any of
these, but he wanted to be prepared for the worst.
  Upon returning to the office, Rodgers looked
down at Ani. "If you cooperate, I'll help
you when we get out of here."
  She didn't respond.
  "Do you understand?" Rodgers pressed.
  "I understand," she said without looking up. After handing
August his guns, Rodgers took the colonel's
arm. He led him to where Hood was standing, still holding the
phone. "What's wrong?" August asked.
  "I don't have a good feeling about our prisoner,"
Rodgers said quietly.
  "Why?" Hood asked.
  "In a few minutes, she's going to have us by the
short hairs," Rodgers said.
"Suppose Chatterjee calls the terrorists for
us. Then this woman refuses to back up the lie.
Where are we then?" "I'd say pretty much where we
are now," August told him. "Not exactly,"
Rodgers said. "The terrorists will have been attacked
and then lied to. They're going to want to hit back.
Shoot a hostage as scheduled and add another as
payback."
  "Are you saying we shouldn't do this?" Hood asked.
"No, I don't think we have a choice,"
Rodgers said. "Because, if nothing else, we can buy
ourselves a few extra minutes."
  "For what?" Hood asked.
  "To take control of this situation," Rodgers said.
"To launch a bottleneck operation."
  August seemed pleased.
  Hood shook his head. "With what kind of force?"
he asked. "The pair of you?"
  "It can work," Rodgers told him.
  "I repeat-with just two soldiers?" Hood
asked. "In theory, yes," Rodgers said.
  Hood didn't seem happy with that answer.
  "We've run simulations," Rodgers went on.
"Brett has drilled for this."
  "Mike," Hood said, "even if you can
get in there, the hostages are going to be extremely
vulnerable." "Like I said, what do you think is going
to happen if our lady friend here turns on us?"
Rodgers asked. "We've got human gunpowder
in a keg, and we're applying a match. The
terrorists are going to blow." Hood had to admit that
Rodgers had a point. He looked at his watch.
"Bob?" he said into the phone. "I'm here," said
Herbert:
  "What's happening with the phone number?" "The
State Department still only has the number for
Secretary-General Manni, if you can believe
it. I've got Darrell working on getting the
number through Interpol and Matt trying to hack it,"
Herbert said. "I'm betting on Matt getting it
first at this point. Another minute or two."
  "Bob, we're measuring time in seconds,"
Hood said. "Understood," Herbert replied.
  Hood looked at Rodgers. "How do you both
get inside?" "Only Colonel August has
to go in," Rodgers continued. "I'll take the
base position, which will be outside the Security
Council." He looked at August. "The entrance
to the UN garage is located on the, northeast
side of the compound, down a flight of stairs
that are on a direct line from the front door of this
building. That's where you get in."
  "How do you know the garage will be open?" Hood
asked. "It was open when I came here," Rodgers
said, "and they're obviously keeping it that way in
case they want to move personnel or equipment
in. The terrorists might hear the sound of a big
door like that shutting and then opening. It could tip them
off, if something were up." That was a good point, Hood
thought. "There probably won't be any security
personnel in the rose garden leading to the garage,"
Rodgers said to August. "They'll keep the
perimeter itself guarded to maximize manpower. If
there are choppers, you'll have sufficient cover under the
bushes or statues. Once you get through the park and
into the garage, your only problem will be the corridor
between the elevator and the Security Council. According
to the blueprints, the elevator shaft lets off about
fifty feet down the main corridor from the
Security Council."
  "Isn't that a big problem?" Hood asked.
  "Not really," August said. "I can cover fifty
feet pretty quick. I'll bowl people down if I have
to. Surprise works against your own people, too."
  "What if the security personnel
fire at you?" Hood asked. "I heard foreign
accents on our little bug," August said. "I'm
sure there are UN personnel I can use as a
shield. Once I get inside the Security
Council, it doesn't matter what they do."
  "It's still an extra impediment," Hood said.
"Maybe we can convince Chatterjee to help us, if
it comes to that," August suggested. "If the lie about
the ransom doesn't work, I doubt she'll go with a
second lie," Hood said. "Diplomats
  who were never soldiers don't understand the quicksilver
nature of warfare."
  "She may not have a choice by that time," Rodgers
said. "Colonel August will be inside."
  "Who do you think will be watching the garage door?"
August asked Rodgers.
  "They're probably letting the NYPD take
charge of that," Rodgers said. "Most of the UN
police are probably upstairs."
  Bob Herbert came back on then.
Op-Center's computer genius Matt Stoll had
managed to pull it from the restricted online United
Nations directory before Darrell McCaskey was
able to get the number from his Interpol people. Hood
wrote it down. The phone line wouldn't be
secure, but Hood would have to risk it. There wasn't
much time left.
  He would have to risk a number of things, he
decided. He okayed Rodgers's plan and
August left at once. Hood punched in the
number. A man with an Italian accent answered.
"This is the secretary-general's line."
  "This is Paul Hood, the Director of
Op-Center in Washington," Hood said. "I need
to speak with the secretary-general."
  "Mr. Hood, we have a situ-was
  "I know!" Hood snapped. "And we can save the
next victim if we act quickly! Put her on."
  "Just a moment," the man told him.
  Hood glanced at ,his watch. Assuming the
terrorists didn't rush the deadline, there was just over
a minute left. A woman came on the line.
"This is Mala Chatterjee."
  "Madam Secretary-General, this is Paul
Hood," he said. "I'm the director of a
crisis management team in Washington. One of the
hostages is my daughter." Hood's voice was
quaking. He realized that what he said now could save
or doom Harleigh. "Yes, Mr. Hood?"
  "I need your help," Hood went on.
"I need you to radio the terrorists and tell them that
you have the money and the helicopter they've asked for.
If you do that, we can make sure they believe you."
  "But we don't have those things," Chatterjee told
him. "Nor are we likely to."
  "By the time the terrorists figure that out, they'll be
outside the building," Hood said. "I'll have the
NYPD ready to get them there." "We've already
tried one very costly attack," Chatterjee said.
"I won't authorize another."
  Hood didn't want her to know that he knew that.
"This will be different," Hood said. "If the
terrorists are outside, they can't control all the
hostages. We can get some of them away. And if
they use poison gas, we'll be in a better
position to help the victims. But you've got
to call the terrorists now. You've also got to tell
them that the offer is only good if they don't kill
any more hostages."
  Chatterjee hesitated. Hood couldn't understand
what she was hesitating about. After the hit the
security forces had just taken, there was only one
answer: I'll do it. I'll help save a life
and smoke the bastards out. Or did she still think she
could open a dialogue, talk the
terrorists into surrendering? If he had the time
to finesse the situation, he would point out that Colonel
Georgiev had apparently helped to turn the
UNTAC operation into a
  sham. He would ask how she could still believe her
own propaganda, that peacekeeping and negotiation were
somehow the high road and force was the low road.
  "Madam Secretary-General, please,"
Hood said. "We have less than a minute."
  She continued to hesitate. Hood had never been
as disgusted with despots as he was right now with this
so-called humanitarian. What was there to fret
over? Lying to terrorists? Having to explain to the
Gabonese Republic why the United Nations
charter was being sidestepped, why the surviving members
of the General Assembly weren't consulted before the
United States was permitted to terminate a
hostage situation?
  But this wasn't the time for a debate. Hopefully,
Chatterjee would see that, too. And quickly.
  "All right," the secretary-general replied.
"I will place the call to save a life."
  "Thank you," Hood replied. "I'll be in
touch."
  New York, New York Sunday,
12:00 A.m.
  Harleigh Hood was on her knees, facing the
closed doors of the Security Council chamber.
  The Australian man was standing behind her, holding
her hair tightly, painfully. The other man, the
Spanish-sounding man, was behind him, looking at his
watch. Harleigh's face was badly swollen above
the right cheek where she'd been pistol-whipped when
she'd tried to bite him. There was blood on her
mouth where she'd been backfisted, hard. Her gown was
torn at both shoulders, her neck rug-burned from
being dragged up here, all the while kicking at the
floor, walls, and chairs. And her left side
hurt with every breath because she'd been jackbooted there just
a few seconds before. Harleigh had not gone
willingly to her execution. Now that the young woman was
here, she was staring ahead blankly. She hurt
everywhere, but nothing was as painful as the utter loss of
her humanity, something she couldn't even touch. She
realized, in a surprisingly lucid instant, that this
was probably what it was like to be raped. Choice
taken away. Dignity taken away. Future
fear of any stimulus reminiscent of the experience,
whether it was something pulling at your hair or the
feeling of a rug under your knees. Perhaps
worst of all,
  this wasn't about anything she had done or said or
been. She was just a convenient target for some
animal's hostility. Is that what death was
supposed to be like? No angels and trumpets.
She was just meat.
  No.
  Harleigh screamed a cry of rage that came from
deep inside. She screamed again, and then her
bruised muscles exploded and she tried to get
to her feet. Death was that if you let it be that. The
Australian tugged hard on her hair, twisting her
around. Harleigh fell to the ground, onto her back.
She fought to get up, wriggling from side to side.
Her captor dropped his knee on her chest, hard,
and remained there. He put the barrel of his gun in
her mouth. "Scream into this," he said.
  Harleigh did, defiantly, and he pushed the
barrel down her throat until she gagged.
  "Go on, one more time, angel," he said.
"Scream again and it will scream back."
  Metallic-tasting saliva quickly pooled in the
bottom of Harleigh's throat. Blood mixed with the
saliva, and she stopped screaming; she had to as she
tried to swallow around the gun. But she
couldn't swallow, cough, or breathe. She was going
to drown in her own saliva before he could shoot her.
She reached up and tried to push his hand back, but he
used his free hand to grab her wrists. He easily
forced Harleigh's slender arms to the side. "It's
time," Barone said.
  Downer glared down as Harleigh made a
guttural sound around the gun barrel.
  Just then the radio beeped.
  "Hold it," Barone said quickly. He answered the
radio. "Yes?" "This is Secretary-General
Chatterjee," said the caller. "We have your money,
and a helicopter is on the way."
  Downer and Barone exchanged looks. Barone hit
the mute button. His eyes narrowed
suspiciously.
  "She's lying," Downer said. "She couldn't have
gotten it this fast."
  Barone disengaged the mute. "How did you get
it?" he asked. "The United States government
has guaranteed a loan from the Federal Reserve
Bank in New York," she said. "They're
putting together the currency and bringing it over."
  "Wait until you hear from me," the Uruguayan
said. He turned and started running down the
stairs.
  "You won't execute the hostage?" Chatterjee
said. "I'll execute two hostages if you're
lying," he replied. He punched the radio off and
hurried to the TACSAT phone at the front of the
Security Council chamber.
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:01
A.m.
  While they waited for the TACSAT to ring,
Rodgers called Bob Herbert and briefed him.
Herbert said he would get in touch with New York
Police Commissioner Kane. The men had worked together
when Russian spies in Brighton Beach were helping
to orchestrate a coup in Moscow. Herbert had a
good rapport with the commissioner and felt that Gordon
would welcome the chance to save the hostages-and the
UN.
  When Rodgers was finished, he made another
call to check messages, he said. That wasn't
true, but he didn't want the young woman to know it.
He asked to borrow Hood's cell phone to make
the call. While Hood looked on, Rodgers
stood between the woman and the desk so she couldn't see
what he was doing. It was a trick he had learned from
Barb Herbert, who used his wheelchair
phone to spy on people after he left a meeting.
Rodgers turned off the ringer on the office phone and
then called the number, using Hood's cell phone.
He answered the office phone, switched it
to speaker, and left both lines open. Then he put
the cell phone in his pants pocket, making sure
he didn't disconnect. Rodgers went back and
sat on the desk, across from Annabelle
Hampton. Hood paced between them. As the
  minutes inched by, Rodgers became more convinced that
this wasn't going to go the way he wanted.
  The young woman was staring ahead fixedly the entire
time. Rodgers did not doubt what she was looking
at. The future. Ani Hampton didn't
strike Rodgers as the PGA type-a postgame
analyst. Many intelligence and military people worked like
chess masters or ballroom dancers. They followed
carefully tested patterns and deviated as little as
possible from often-complex moves and strategies.
When deviations did occur, they were later studied and
either incorporated into the playbook or discarded. But
there were also many CIA field personnel who took
a more ephemeral approach to tactics. These were the
so-called "sharks." Typically, sharks were loners
whose modus operandi was to continually move and
look ahead. It didn't matter if the bridge
burned behind them; they probably weren't going back,
anyway. These were the kinds of people who managed
to infiltrate foreign villages, terrorist
cells, and enemy bases. Rodgers was betting that
Ani Hampton was a shark. She wasn't sitting
here regretting anything. She was figuring out what to do
next. Rodgers had a damn good idea exactly
what that was, which was why he'd asked Colonel
August to leave. Just in case. Looking at the young
woman, Rodgers felt cold-inside, not out.
What she'd done here reminded him of something he'd
learned during his first tour of duty in Vietnam: that
while treason was the exception rather than the rule, it
was everywhere. In every nation, every city, every town. And there were
no reliable profiles, no rules, to sort out the
practitioners. Traitors came in all ages,
sexes, and nationalities. They worked in public
  places and private places and held jobs where
they came inffcontact with information or people. And what they
did could be personal or it could be motivated
entirely by profit. There was something else about
traitors, something unique to them. They were most
dangerous when they were caught. Faced with execution for
their crimes, they had nothing to lose. If
they had a final gambit, however futile or
destructive it was, they'd try it.
  In 1969, the CIA had received intelligence that
North Vietnam was using a South Vietnamese
military hospital in Saigon to distribute
drugs to American servicemen. Rodgers went
there, ostensibly to visit a wounded comrade. He
watched as South Vietnamese nurses accepted
American dollars from "wounded" South
Vietnamese soldiers--actually, fifteen
to eighteen-year-old Viet Cong infiltrators-as
payment for moving heroin and marijuana from the basement
to field-bound medical kits. When arrested, two
of the three nurses pulled pins from hand grenades that
killed them and seven wounded soldiers in the ward.
  Caregivers and teenagers becoming killers.
Vietnam was unique that way. It was the reason so
many veterans had snapped when they came home. In
quiet villages, young girls frequently
greeted American soldiers. Some asked for candy
or money. Often, that was all they wanted. Other
times, girls carried dolls that were rigged
to explode. Sometimes the girls blew up with them.
Old women occasionally offered bowls of
cyanide-laced rice to the Americans,
rice which they ate first to put the soldiers at ease.
These were shapes of destruction more frightening than an
M16 or a land mine. More than any other war,
Vietnam had robbed American soldiers of the
  notion that anything anywhere could be trusted. And
returning from that war, many soldiers found that they could
no longer open up to wives, relatives, even
children. That was one of the reasons Mike Rodgers had
never married. Getting close to anyone other than a
fellow soldier was impossible. And all the therapy,
all the reasoning in the world couldn't change that. Once
killed, innocence could not be revived.
  Rodgers was not happy to revisit those feelings of
mistrust again through Annabelle Hampton. The young
woman had sold innocent lives for profit and
dishonored the government she worked for. He wondered
how anyone could be content with blood money. The
building was quiet, and there were no ambient sounds coming
from outside. First Avenue had been shut down just beyond
this building and the FDR Drive had been closed because
it passed right behind the United Nations. Obviously,
the New York Police Department wanted to have
clear access if they needed it. The deadened street
in front of this building was also closed. When the
TACSAT beeped, it startled them all.
Hood stopped pacing and stood beside Rodgers.
Annabelle's gaze shifted to the general. Her
mouth was set, and there wasn't a hint of compliance in
her pale blue eyes.
  Rodgers wasn't surprised. Annabelle
Hampton was a shark, after all. "Answer the
phone," Rodgers said.
  She stared at him. Her eyes were cold. "If
I don't, are you going to torture me again?"
  "I'd rather not," Rodgers said.
  "I know that," Annabelle said. She grinned.
"Things have changed, haven't they?"
  There was definitely something different in the young
woman's voice. Aggressiveness. Confidence.
They'd given her too much time to think. The dance had
begun, and Annabelle Hampton was leading.
Rodgers was glad he'd taken the precautions he
had. "You could force me to answer by bending my finger
back again," she said. "Or you could hurt me in other
ways. Open a paper clip or find a push pin and
press the point through the soft skin under one of my
eyes. Standard CIA method of persuasion. But then
the pain would show in my voice. They'd know I was being
coerced." "You said you'd cooperate," Hood
pointed out.
  "And if I don't cooperate, what will you do?"
she asked. "If you shoot me, the hostage dies for
sure." She made a point of looking at Hood.
"Possibly your daughter."
  Hood's body stiffened.
  She was better than he'd expected, Rodgers
thought. The dance had become a quick, duty game of
chicken. Rodgers already knew which way this was going.
What he needed now was to buy August time. "What
do you want?" Rodgers asked.
  "I want you to cut me loose and leave the
room," she said. "I'll make the call you want,
then I go free." "I won't do it," Rodgers
said.
  "Why not?" Ani asked. "Don't want
to dirty your hands cutting a deal with me?"
  "I've cut deals with worse than you,"
Rodgers said. "I won't cut a deal because I
don't trust you. You need this operation to succeed.
Terrorists don't pay in advance. That's how they
ensure loyalty. The situation you're in now, you
need your cut of the ransom." The TACSAT beeped
a second time.
  "Whether you trust me or not," Annabelle said,
"if I don't answer the phone, they're
going to assume that something has happened to me.
They'll execute the girl."
  "In that case," Rodgers replied evenly,
"you'll either be executed or spend your life in
jail as an accomplice." "I end up with ten
to twenty years if I cooperate with you," Ani
said. "I get life or death if I don't.
What's the difference?" "About thirty years,"
Rodgers said. "It might not matter now, but it will
when you're sixty."
  "Spare me the recon from the front," she
replied. "Ms. Hampton, please," Hood
said. "It's not too late to help yourself and dozens of
innocent people." "Tell your partner, not me," she said.
The TACSAT beeped a third time.
  "There will be a total of five rings," Ani said.
"Then a girl in the Security Council Chamber
will have her head blown open. Is that what you want?
Either of you?"
  Rodgers took a half step forward. He
shouldered between Hood and the woman. He didn't know
if Hood would take the bait and order him to comply
with her, but he didn't want to risk it. Hood was
still the director of Op-Center, and Rodgers
didn't want them fighting each other.
Especially since Hood didn't know what else
was going on right now.
  "Let me go, and I'll tell them what you
want," she said. "Why don't you say what we
want and then we'll let you go?" Rodgers countered.
  "Because as much as you don't trust me, I don't
trust
  you," she said. "And right now, you need me more than
I need you." The TACSAT beeped a fourth time.
"Mike-was Hood said. Though Hood had been there
for the planning of the bottleneck, he was obviously
hoping the original idea could be adhered to: drawing
the terrorists outside. But Rodgers waited. A
few seconds more could make the difference between success
and failure. "I'm against this," Rodgers said
to Annabelle. "And you hate the fact that that
doesn't matter," she replied. "No,"
Rodgers told the young woman. "I've eaten shit
before, too. We're all grownups here. What I
hate is having to trust someone who has already broken
one promise."
  The general tucked a gun into his belt, reached
into his pants pocket, and pulled out a
switchblade. He snapped it open with a flick of
his hand and began cutting her free. " The
TACSAT beeped a fifth time.
  Annabelle reached for the knife. "I'll finish
that," she said. Rodgers released the knife. He
stood back, in case she decided to use it on
him.
  "I want you out of here," the young woman said. "I
want to see you on my security camera, in the
hallway. And leave me my keys." Rodgers
took the key case from his pants pocket and tossed
it on the floor in front of her. Then he grabbed
his jacket from the back of a chair and followed Hood
out.
  The young woman finished cutting herself loose, then
  switched the computer monitor to a security
view. As Rodgers crossed the office lobby
toward the corridor, Ani leaned over and picked
up the TACSAT. "Speak," she said. Rodgers was
just going out of earshot as she said that. Fortunately,
he wasn't out of earshot for long. He hurried
into the hallway and passed under the security camera.
Like Annabelle Hampton, Rodgers was a shark.
But for all her bold threats and lies, for all the
bluster she'd just thrown at them, he had something the young
woman lacked.
  Thirty years in the water.
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:04
A.m.
  As soon as Rodgers and Hood passed beyond the
fisheye lens of the security camera, Rodgers
took Hood's cell phone from his pocket. The
general stopped in the corridor and listened in silence
for a moment, then disconnected. He handed Hood the
cell phone along with one of his two guns.
  "She told him the truth?" Hood asked. "She
screwed us good," Rodgers said.
  Rodgers pulled the point-to-point radio from his
jacket pocket. He pushed the transmit
button on top. "Brett?" he said. "Here,
General."
  "The bottleneck is a go," Rodgers said.
"Will you make it?" "I'll make it," August
replied.
  "Good," Rodgers said. "When do you want the
feedback?" "In two minutes," August said.
  Rodgers looked at his watch. "You've got it.
I'll get in position, north side of the building.
I'll be ready in seven minutes." "Understood,"
August said and signed off. "Good luck."
  "Godspeed," Rodgers said. He put the
radio back in his pocket. Hood shook
his head. "You called this one right."
"Unfortunately," Rodgers admitted. He
looked at his watch. "Listen. I've got to get
going. Call the NYPD and have them close off this
floor and take our lady into custody. She'll
probably be armed, so if she comes out before they get
here, you may have to take her down." "I can do that,"
Hood said.
  All of Op-Center's executive officers had
taken extensive weapons training, since they were
likely targets of terrorism. Right now, Hood
didn't think he would have any trouble firing at
Annabelle Hampton. And it wasn't only because
she had betrayed them. It was because Rodgers was so
completely prepared, so much in charge, that there was no
questioning his orders. Which was what military leadership was
all about.
  "I'll also need you to try what you suggested before."
  "Chatterjee?"
  Rodgers nodded. "I know it's a long shot, but
explain what's going to happen. If she doesn't
want to cooperate, tell her there's nothing she can do
to stop what we've set in-was "I know the drill,"
Hood said.
  "Right," Rodgers said. "Sorry.
Tell her there's only one thing I want from her and
her people."
  "What's that?" Hood asked.
  Rodgers looked for the exit sign and then hurried
toward the stairs. "To stay out of our way."
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:05
A.
  Colonel Brett August moved like a leopard
through the silent park. There were no helicopters
positioned over this sector, their lights were all on
the UN and its immediate approaches. Save for the
spillover from the spotlights around the UN complex,
the grounds were dark.
  August's stride was long and sure, his body
bent low, his balance perfect. The high stakes
energized rather than daunted him. Despite the odds
against him, he was eager to engage, eager to test himself.
And despite the fact that nothing was ever guaranteed in
combat, he was confident Confident of his training, his
abilities, and the necessity of what he was doing.
  He was also confident of the plan. What General
Rodgers had said about the chaotic, quicksilver
nature of combat was absolutely true. And the
bottleneck gave a unit the ability to contain it
somewhat.
  The bottleneck operation is a classic
maneuver that was first used, as far as anyone could
determine, by a small, ragtag army of Russian
peasants serving under Prince Alexander Nevsky.
The Russians were battling heavily armed and armored
Teutonic invaders in the twelfth century. The
only way they could conceivably
  defeat the larger, better-equipped force was
by squeezing them onto a frozen lake, where the ice
cracked beneath the weight of their armor. Virtually
all of the enemy soldiers drowned. The strategy had
been adapted by Striker's former commander,
Lieutenant Colonel Charles Squires, for
low-personnel offensives. The idea was to select
an area where there was sufficient cover on two
sides of an enemy force such as a gorge, a forest,
or a lakeshore. Finding such a spot, the unit,
however small, would split into two sections. One
group would flank the opposing force, leaving the enemy
between them. One part of the divided force would then advance
in a tight formation, moving down the neck of a
bottle, so to speak. The enemy couldn't afford
to flee, since a hidden army dogging their progress
would be able to snipe at them. And if the enemy tried
to counterattack, the force in the bottleneck
would be able to attack to the front, left, or right.
As the attack forced the enemy back, they'd find
themselves surprised by the force that had moved behind them.
Both sections of the divided unit would then hammer
them. Done well, under cover of night or
geography, the bottleneck made it possible for a
small force to overcome a much larger one.
  Colonel August would not have the darkness to cover his
move into the chamber. Even if he could kill the
lights for a second or two, that would give the
terrorists a heads-up. He preferred
surprise. Unfortunately, with the lights on, the
enemy would know that he was just one man. They would see
him come into the chamber, just as they'd seen the United
Nations security team enter. If they acted quickly,
the bottleneck could be broken. If that happened,
August would still have several ad vantages. He had
been trained as a soldier, not as a security
guard. The seats in the Security Council would
offer him cover. Thanks to the long, open
staircases, the terrorists would find it difficult
to sneak up on him, especially if he kept moving
low through the upper tiers. And if the terrorists tried
to use hostages as a shield, the Striker leader had
two other advantages. One was his eye.
Brett August was one of the deadliest shots in the
combined special forces, and he had the medals
to prove it. Only Mike Rodgers had won more.
The other advantage was that August wouldn't be
afraid to fire. If he had to risk killing a
hostage to take out a terrorist, he was prepared to do
that. As Mike Rodgers had said earlier, if they
didn't act decisively and soon, the hostages
were going to die anyway.
  The garden stretched southward for several blocks.
It was actually a small, treefilled park
anchored by a towering sculpture of Saint George
slaying the dragon. The statue, a gift of the former
Soviet Union, was made from pieces of
Soviet SS-20 and American Pershing nuclear
missiles that had been destroyed under the terms of the
Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty of
1987. Like the UN itself, the statue was a public
relations gesture: a loud, bold lie saluting
peace. The Soviets knew damn well that peace
didn't work unless you had the SS-20'S and Pershing
missiles to back it up. Or a goad tactic like
the bottleneck, he thought. That was a Russian
monur equals t he could respect.
  Large, gray rats were moving
furtively among the rosebushes. Rats
weigood scouts that way. If they were out, it meant
there probably wasn't anyone up ahead The
animals scattered as August moved by.
  The Colonel crouched lower as he neared the end of
  the park. Beyond the greenery was an open courtyard
roughly seventy feet across that led to the main lobby
of the General Assembly Building. There were still too
many bushes and trees for him to see it clearly.
  August was carrying one of the two Berettas that
Rodgers had given him. The other handgun was in his
right pants pocket. The colonel had posed as a
tourist on his recent mission to Spain, a disguise
that had taught him to wear pants with pockets deep
enough to carry a concealed weapon. He was also still carrying
the radio, just in case he needed it to help him get
inside. Otherwise, August would have shut it off and
left it behind. A communication or a burst of static
at the wrong time could give his position away.
Ironically, that was the very thing he might need to get
inside the building. Pausing when he was about two
hundred and fifty feet from the General Assembly
Building, August looked past the other, smaller
sculptures toward the United Nations compound itself.
In addition to three helicopters hovering
over the area, the spotlights were on in the wide
courtyard and a half-dozen NYPD officers were
stationed at the main lobby entrance. Rodgers was right.
The police had been allowed to move from their command
booths on the street to the grounds when the UN
guards were called away. August couldn't risk
taking the steps and being spotted. The NYPD
wasn't like the UN police. They were more like
Striker. They knew how to take people down and keep
them down. When he was a NATO adviser, August
had spent time with a former NYPD Emergency
Service chief of department who had briefed
NATO strategists on hostage situations. New
York Police Department policy was to establish
and secure an inner perimeter, as tight as
possible, then bring
  in specialized weapons, heavy vests, and be
ready to tackle the hostage-takers in case
negotiations broke down. This situation would have ended
hours ago if Chatterjee hadn't been so
obliging. It was all part of the post-Desert Storm
world mind-set. Someone breaks the law. Then, in the
cause of world peace, everyone else talks and
negotiates while the lawbreaker grows stronger and
more entrenched. When you finally decide to do
something about it, you need a coalition.
  That was crap. All you needed was the guy who started
it in your gunsight. He'd back down fast enough.
August rarely paid attention to clocks. He always
moved as fast as he could, as efficiently as he could,
and assumed that he had less time than he did.
To date, he'd never missed a deadline. But even
without checking his watch, he knew he didn't have time
to explain who he was or what he was doing here.
Instead, he decided to leave the garden and go down to the
FDR Drive. The highway ran under the wide
esplanade that bordered the garden on the east. Though
he'd have to drop down instead of using the stairs behind the
UN, it was the only way he'd get to the garage
unseen.
  Turning toward the river, August made his way
alongside the gravel path that led to the concrete
walkway. Crossing the esplanade, he came to a
low metal fence and swung over it. Lying on his
belly, facing east, he looked over the edge of the
walkway. It was a drop of about twelve feet to the
highway, but there was nothing to hold onto. Removing
the radio from his pocket, he replaced it with the gun.
Then he took off his belt, slid the flapend through
the radio case, and pulled until the
case rested against the buckle. Then he looped the
belt around one of the thin stanchions that supported the
rail.
  Holding the two ends of the strap, he lowered himself
over the side. Still holding the buckle end of the belt
and the radio, he let go of the other end and dropped the
five feet to the asphalt. August landed with his
knees slightly bent. He stood quickly. The
United Nations garage was to the south, directly
ahead. August couldn't see the site clearly
yet, since it was blocked by the corner of a building
on the northeastern side of the street. August put
his belt back on as he crept through the eerie
silence under the highway. As he neared the garage
entrance, he saw two policemen standing to the east of the
open door. The inside of the garage was lighted, but the
outside was dark. If he could draw the officers
away, then getting to the door unseen wouldn't be a
problem.
  August looked at his watch. In twenty
seconds, Rodgers would turn his own radio
to maximum volume. With his own radio turned up,
the overload would generate a static feedback. When
that happened, the police would do one of three things.
Both officers would go to investigate; one
officer would investigate while the other remained at
his post; or they would call for backup. August
expected that both officers would go. They couldn't
afford to leave a possible threat unchecked, and he
imagined that the NYPD followed the field policy
of most big-city police departments. That officers
were not allowed to enter a potentially dangerous situation
alone.
  If that didn't happen, August was going to have
to take down one or both officers. He didn't
relish attacking men who were on the same team, but
he was prepared to do it. He shifted to a
confrontational mind-set, with his focus on the goal
and not the means. The colonel moved quickly through the
shadows un der the highway, then put his radio down
beside the curb. He made sure the volume was
turned all the way up. Then, with just seconds
remaining, he ducked into a darkened doorway across from
the garage. He was approximately thirty feet
from the corner and roughly the same distance from the garage.
August slipped off his shoes.
  Less than five seconds later, a piercing
screech ripped through the night. August watched as the
officers looked over. One drew his gun and
flashlight and started toward the street while
the other radioed in the 10-59, which identified it as
a non crime-related noise.
  "Sounds like a radio," said the officer who was
reporting the incident. "We have anyone else on the
block?" "Negative," said the dispatcher.
  "I copy that," said the officer. "I'm going over
with Orlando." The first police officer approached
cautiously with his flashlight turned toward the side
of the building on the northeast corner. The second
officer stayed slightly to the side, his gun drawn
and his radio on. He was betting that these men would
shoot him on sight if they saw him. He had
to make certain that they did not. While the radio
continued to crackle loudly, August watched the
officers. When they reacted the corner, he ducked
low and ran across the street in his stocking feet. He
made no sound, did not feel anything he stepped
on. The goal was all that mattered. And as he entered
the garage and saw the elevator ahead, he had
only one goal. To win.
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:06
A.m.
  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 pre dicting 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-was "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-was
  "You had a plan, and we tried it," she said.
"It failed." "This one won't-was
  "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.
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:07
A.m.
  Shortly after answering the TACSAT 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 Fast. 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. 0
  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 Whalley 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 v ould 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. .
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:08
A.m.
  The wooden door of the Security Council opened
outward. Colonel August stood in the doorway,
simultaneously looking for the killer and making himself
the target. He was wearing his bulletproof vest and was
willing to trade hits if it would save a
hostage's life. The terrorist couldn't shoot a
hostage if he was shooting at August.
  The first person August saw was a slender,
teenage girl. She was on her knees less than
five yards away. She was whimpering and shaking.
August wasn't sure who the girl was. The
terrorist was standing very close behind her. Using
peripheral vision, August noted the location of the
other two terrorists. One of them was standing in the
front of the Security Countil chamber, behind the
semicircular desk. The other terrorist was standing
right beside the door that led to the adjoining Trusteeship
Council. The terrorists were all dressed in
black and wearing ski masks. The one nearest him was
holding the girl's long blonde hair by the roots,
close to her forehead, so that her face was
staring straight up. He had a gun pointed
directly ahead, at the top of her skull.
August had the middle of the man's mask in his gun
  sight, but he didn't want to fire first. If
he hit the terrorist, the man's finger might tighten
around the trigger and take the top of the girl's head
off. August knew that was wrong; if he had the
shot, he should take it. The thought that this could be Paul
Hood's daughter stopped him.
  The terrorist hesitated and then he did something that
surprised August. He dropped directly behind
the kneeling girl and then threw himself to his right, into the
row of seats. Still holding the girl's hair, he
pulled her with him. Obviously, he did not want
to trade gunfire. And now he had a shield. You
should have taken the damn shot, August reprimanded
himself. Instead of having one less terrorist to deal
with, everyone was at risk.
  The terrorist and the girl were four rows down the
sloping gallery. August pocketed the Beretta that
was in his right hand, turned to his left, and jogged a
few feet along the back of the gallery. Silent in
his bare feet, he put his free hand on the railing
that ran along the seat backs of the last row. He
leaped the green velvet seats and immediately
jumped the next row. He was now two rows from the
terrorist and the girl.
  "Downer, he's coming for you!" one of the terrorists
shouted. He had a French accent. "Behind you" "Get
out or I'll kill her!" shouted Downer, the pinned
terrorist. "I'll blow her goddam brains out!"
  August was still two rows away. The man with the
French accent started running toward him. He would be
on the stairs in two or three seconds. The
third man was covering the hostages. "Barone, the
gas!" the Frenchman said.
  The third terrorist, Barone, ran toward a
duffel bag
  that sat open in the front of the chamber, near the
north-side window. August finished hopping over the
third row. He could now see Downer and the girl.
They were on the floor of the next row. The terrorist
was on his back with the girl faceup on top of him.
But August had a problem.
  The bottleneck had required preventing the
girl's death, disabling the nearest of the three
terrorists, and establishing a beachhead in the back
of the chamber before General Rodgers got here. That
hadn't happened. Unfortunately, not only was the
bottleneck dead, but the colonel had
to reorder his priorities. He had to deal with the
gas.
  Barone was on the opposite side of the
semicircular table, protected by the table and by the
hostages. He had already removed his ski mask and
had pulled three gas masks from the duffel bag.
The terrorist slipped one of the masks on as he
handed the others out. The other men didn't put them on
yet because the goggles impaired their peripheral
vision. Then Barone returned to the bag and removed
a black canister.
  August turned and ran toward the north side of the
chamber. The French terrorist had reached the stairs
on the south side of the Security Council and was
running up. August didn't want to stop and shoot
it out with him. Even if the Frenchman tagged him,
August would be in a better position to kill Barone
if he were on the same side of the chamber.
  The table and the tightly huddled hostages were still in
August's way.
  "No one move!" August shouted. Running, they
might get between him and Barone.
  No one moved at all.
  August reached the stairwell and started down. He
kept his right arm across his chest. Cocked at
his side, the arm would be more vulnerable. The Frenchman
was directly across the room. The terrorist suddenly
stopped and fired several rounds. Two of the four
shots hit August in the waist and ribs. The
impact threw him against the wall, though the
bulletproof vest stopped the slugs. "You're
down, you bastard!" the Frenchman cried
triumphantly. "Downer, cover me!" he yelled
as he cut through one of the middle rows of the gallery,
heading toward the north side. The Australian
threw the girl aside and stood. He screamed in
raw, frustrated rage.
  Pulling himself off the wall, August continued
crawling down the steps. He ignored the sharp pain
in his side. Where he was, behind the seats, the
Frenchman did not have a shot at him. And Barone was
almost in view.
  Just then, a loud crack broke from the back of the
room. From the corner of his eye, August saw the
Frenchman fall forward between the rows. Downer ducked
fast as Lieutenant Mailman crouched behind his gun
in the open door.
  "Keep going, sir!" Mailman shouted.
  Good man, August thought. Mailman had shot
at the Frenchman, though August couldn't
tell whether or not the terrorist had been hit.
August reached the bottom step as Barone carefully
peeled a red plastic strip from the mouth of the
canister. He threw the tape aside and began
unscrewing the cap. August fired twice. Both
bullets punched holes in the side of Barone's
head, spilling him toward the front of the chamber. The
canister fell to the carpet, a thin wisp of green
vapor slipping around the neck of the container.
  August swore. He got to his feet and ran
toward the door that adjoined the Trusteeship
Council. He had it in mind to get to the canister and
shut it. If he couldn't do that, then maybe he could
cover the hostages as they ran out through that door. He
never made it.
  The Frenchman emerged on the north side of the
gallery. He was unhurt and opened fire. This time
he aimed at August's legs. August felt
two sharp bites, one in his left thigh and one in his
right shin. He went down, the wounds burning
fiercely. August ground his teeth together and crawled
forward. Pain management training had taught him
to set small, attainable goals. That was how
soldiers stayed conscious and functioning in the field.
He concentrated on where he needed to be.
  Behind him, Downer fired at Mailman, driving
him back outside the door. Meanwhile, the
Frenchman crept down several steps. The canister
was just a few feet away. The cap was still on, but the
gas was beginning to spread. August needed to screw it
back on. He didn't have time to turn and fire.
  Suddenly, there was a massive pop about ten feet
in front of August. The great brown drapes on
the northernmost window blew open and bulletproof
glass flew straight across the front of the
Security Council. Almost simultaneously, there
was a terrific crash as the upper part of the towering
window came crashing down. A moment later, right on
schedule, Mike Rodgers stepped into the room.
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:11
A.m.
  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 tom 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 inffcontact 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. Dom, 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."
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:15
A.m.
  "They're out!" a young man yelled into the waiting
room. "The kids are out, and they're safe!"
  The parents responded with laughter and tears, all
of them rising and hugging one another before making their way
to the door. Official word came as they were filing
into the hallway. A uniformed State Department
security official met them. A middle-aged
woman with short brown hair, big brown eyes,
and a name tag that said Baroni told them that the children
appeared to be well but were being taken to the NYU
Medical Center as a precaution, and that a bus would
be along to bring the parents downtown. The parents were
all grateful and thanked the woman as though she had
personally been responsible for the rescue. The
DOS official made her way inside as she
directed the parents toward an elevator at the end
of the hall. She appeared to be looking for
someone. When she saw Sharon Hood, she touched her
forearm.
  "Mrs. Hood, my name is Lisa Baroni,"
she said. "Can I have a few words with you?"
  The request brought an instant welling of
nausea. "What's wrong?" Sharon asked.
  Lisa gently maneuvered Sharon away from the
last of
  the parents. The two women stood just inside the
door, beside one of the couches.
  "What is it?" Sharon demanded.
  "Mrs. Hood," she said, "I'm afraid your
daughter is still inside." The words sounded
ridiculous. A moment ago, every-one was safe. She
was happy. "What do you mean?" Sharon asked.
"Your daughter is still inside the Security
Council." "No, they're out!" Sharon said, growing
angry. "That man just said they're out!" "Most of the
children were evacuated through a broken window," the woman
said. "But your daughter was not with the group."
  "Why not?"
  "Mrs. Hood, why don't you sit down?"
Lisa said. She urged her back toward the seat.
"I'm going to stay with you."
  "Why wasn't my daughter with them?"
Sharon demanded. "What's happening in there? Is my
husband with them?" "We don't know everything about the
situation," Lisa said softly. "What we do know
is that there are now three SWAT officers inside the
Security Council chamber. Apparently, they were
able to get all but one of the terrorists-was
  "And he has Harleigh!" Sharon screamed. She
clawed at her temples. "Oh my God, he
has my baby!" The woman grabbed Sharon's
wrists and held them gently but firmly. She moved
her fingers into Sharon's tightly curled fingers and
squeezed them. "Where's my husband!" Sharon
cried.
  "Mrs. Hood, you've got to listen to me,"
Lisa said.
  "You know they're going to do everything they can
to protect your daughter, but it may take a little
time. You're going to have to be strong."
  "I want my husband!" Sharon sobbed. "Where
did he go?" the woman asked.
  "I don't know," Sharon said. "He said he had
to do something about this. He has a cell phone. I have
to call him!" "Why don't you give me the number;
I'll do it," the woman said. Sharon gave the
woman Paul's cell phone number.
"Okay," Lisa said. She released Sharon's
hands and pointed to one of the tables. "I'm just going over
there to make the call. You sit here, and I'll be right
back." Sharon nodded. Then she started to cry again.
She sat there sobbing as Lisa Baroni walked over
to the table with the telephones. She tried the number.
Hood had shut off his phone. Sharon couldn't
remember a time when she'd felt such anger and
despair. She didn't need a State Department
official holding her hand right now. She needed her
husband. She needed to talk to him, not to feel so
utterly alone. Whatever he was doing, wherever he
was, at least he could have given her that. Just that.
However this ended, Sharon knew one thing for certain.
She could never forgive Paul for this., Never.
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:16
A.m.
  Paul Hood was running through the park when he
heard the explosion and saw the flash behind the UN.
Since he didn't see or hear shards of glass,
he assumed that it was Mike Rodgers blowing the
window in. Hood ran ahead hard, watching as the
police who had been guarding the lobby entrance
hurried around back. By the time Hood arrived, children
and delegates were already running out through the
shattered window.
  They did it, Hood thought proudly. He hoped
that Rodgers and August were all right.
  Hood was out of breath by the time he reached the
courtyard. One of the police officers had run
ahead toward First Avenue. He had obviously
radioed EMT personnel and wanted to show them where
to set their stations up in the parking lot, away from the
building. Meanwhile, the other officers were ushering the
young women and delegates through the courtyard toward the
lot. Everyone was walking under their own power. They
appeared relatively unhurt. Hood stopped and
watched as they approached. He didn't see
Harleigh among them, but he recognized one of her
friends, Laura Sabia. He went over to her.
"Laura!" he cried.
  One of the police officers moved to intercept him.
"Excuse me, sir, but you'll have to wait for your
daughter-was "She isn't my daughter, officer.
I'm Paul Hood of Op-Center in Washington.
We organized this rescue." "Congratulations,"
said the officer, "but I still need you to get out of the area
and let us-was "Mr. Hood!" Laura said, stepping
out of the line. Hood slid around the police officer.
He ran over and took the young girl's
hand. "Laura, thank God. Are you all right?"
  "I'm okay," she said.
  "What about Harleigh?" he asked. "I don't
see her." "She's still inside."
  Hood felt like he'd been punched hard in the
gut. "In there?" he asked. "In the Security
Council?"
  Laura nodded.
  Hood looked into the girl's bloodshot eyes.
He didn't like what he saw. "Is she hurt?"
  "No," Laura said as she shook her head and
started to cry. "But he has her."
  "Who does?"
  "The man who shot Barbara."
  "One of the terrorists?" Hood asked. Laura
nodded. Hood didn't wait to hear any more.
Releasing Laura's hand and ignoring the officer's
shout to stop, he ran toward the terrace.
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:18
A.m.
  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-was
  "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 POW'S, 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.
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:21
A.m.
  Mala Chatterjee's mind and soul were tortured
as she entered the Security Council chamber,
  The terrorist was lying on the floor. Chatterjee
saw the head of his prisoner, and she saw the
gun being held against it. She ached for the child and was
revulsed by the act of terrorism. Chatterjee would
do anything to save the girl.
  But the secretary-general was troubled by the idea of
allowing a murder to take place when there might be
another way. If she became like these people, if she
killed without conscience, without the law, what kind of
meaning would her life have? She didn't even know
whether this man had actually killed anyone, whether
he could kill anyone.
  Chatterjee walked down the steps toward the row.
"You asked to speak with me," she said.
  "No, I asked you to come in," Downer said. "I
don't want to talk. I want out of here. I also
want what I came for."
  "I want to help you," Chatterjee said. She
stopped at the foot of the aisle. "Let the girl
go."
  "I said no more talk!" Downer screamed.
Harleigh shrieked as the Australian tugged harder
on her hair.
  "There's poison gas leaking up front. I
need you to arrange a place where the lady and I can
wait while you get my money and transportation.
I want the six million dollars."
  "All right," she said.
  Chatterjee saw something move on the northern
staircase. There were eyes peering over the armrest of the
last seat. The man who had been left inside
raised himself up slightly. He put his index finger
to his lips.
  The secretary-general was torn. Was she about to be
part of a rescue effort or an accomplice to a
cold-blooded killing? This American soldier and
his partner had rescued most of the hostages. Perhaps it
had been necessary for them to kill, but that didn't give
them the right to continue killing. Chatterjee's goal
had always been to find a bloodless solution
to conflict. She couldn't give that up while there was still
a chance. There was also the matter of trust. If she
could convince the terrorist that she wanted to help him,
perhaps she could convince him to surrender. "Colonel
August," she said, "there has been enough killing today."
August froze. For a moment, Chatterjee wondered
if he were going to shoot her.
  "Who are you talking to?" Downer demanded.
"Who's here?" "Another soldier," she told him.
  "Then he wasn't killed, the bastard!" Downer
cried. "Please put down your weapons and leave,
Colonel," Chatterjee said. "I
can't," August replied bitterly. "I've been
shot."
  "You'll be shot again if you don't get the hell
out of here!" Downer screamed.
  The Australian swung Harleigh around roughly.
He pulled her up by her hair, knelt behind her, and
aimed his automatic at August. He fired a
burst as the Striker leader dropped back onto the
stairwell. Wood from the armrests flew in every
direction. The bursts echoed for a moment after he
stopped firing. Snarling, Downer looked back at
Chatterjee. He kept Harleigh between himself and
August. At the bottom of the chamber, the
secretary-general could see the poison gas beginning
to creep around the edges of the drape. "Get him out!"
Downer cried. "I'm trying to help you!"
Chatterjee shouted at Downer. "Let me handle-was
  "Shut up and do what I said!" Downer screamed.
He turned to face her as he did. For a moment his
chest was facing the front of the chamber.
  A gunshot ripped through the chamber. The bullet
punched a hole in the right side of Downer's neck,
away from Harleigh. He dropped the gun and
released Harleigh as the impact sent his arms
back. Paul Hood rose from the bottom
of the Security Council chamber. He was holding the
Beretta Mike Rodgers had left behind. "Get
down, Harleigh!" he cried.
  She covered her head and dropped straight down.
A moment later, a second gunshot cracked from the
north-side staircase. Colonel August put
a shot cleanly through the terrorist's left cheek.
A second bullet drilled through Downer's
temple as he fell.
  Blood collected on the floor even before his
body landed. Chatterjee screamed.
  Paul Hood dropped the gun and ran around to the
north-side staircase. Waved on by August,
Hood continued up to his daughter's side.
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:25
A.m.
  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.
  New York, New York Sunday, 12:51
A.m.
  Alexander was asleep when Hood walked into the
hotel room. Sharon had gone to the NYU
Medical Center with Harleigh. In addition to a
physical checkup, it was important that
she talk to a psychologist as soon as possible.
Harleigh had to understand that she did nothing to bring this on
herself and shouldn't feel guilty about having survived
it. Before any of the other damage could be attended to,
she had to understand that. Hood stood by the side of the
king-size bed and looked down at his son. The
boy's life had changed, his sister's needs would be
different, and he didn't even know it. The innocence
of sleep. Hood turned and went into the bathroom.
He filled the sink and washed his face. His life
had changed, too. He'd killed a man. And
whether the man deserved to die or not, Hood had
killed him on international territory. There would
probably be a trial, and it might not be in the
United States. The process could take years,
and it might very well compromise the security of
Op-Center. How did they know certain things?
To what extent were the CIA and the State Department
involved? What
  was the connection between the U.s, government and the
missing Bulgarian Georgiev? The government
agencies had no authority in any of these areas.
  The irony was that the United Nations might come out
of this looking like the wounded party, the victim of a
United States conspiracy. From withholding
dues to bugging the secretary-general, we'd broken
many of the rules that States Members of the United
Nations promised to uphold. Nations that sponsored
terrorism, trafficked in narcotics, and crushed
human rights would be able to wag their fingers
indignantly at the United States. And we would
take it. We would take it because the media would be
watching. Hood had always felt that television and the
United Nations were made for each other. In their
eyes, everyone was the same size.
  Hood toweled off and looked at himself in the
mirror. Sadly, he didn't think the most
difficult fight would be with his enemies. That would come
when he and Sharon tried to talk. Not just about his
behavior tonight but about a future that suddenly looked
very different from what they'd been planning. "Enough,"
he said quietly.
  Hood dropped the towel on the counter and took a
drink of tap water. He walked slowly back to the
bedroom. The night was starting to catch up with him. His
legs were weak from all the running, and he'd strained his
lower back when he'd run crouching into the Security
Council chamber. He eased himself down beside
Alexander. He kissed the boy lightly behind the ear.
He hadn't done that in years and was
surprised. He could still smell the remnants of little
boyhood there.
  The peace of the child gave comfort to the man. And as he
slipped into sleep, Hood's last thought was how
  strange it all was. He had helped to make
these two children. Yet by their needs and by their love, the
reverse was also true. These children had created a father.
  New York, New York Sunday, 7:00
A.m.
  A call from Bill Mohalley startled Hood
awake at seven A.m. The State Department
official was calling to inform Hood that his wife,
daughter, and the other families were being brought to La
Guardia Airport for a flight to Washington.
Mohalley said that his wife had been notified at
the hospital and that the NYPD would arrive at the
hotel in an hour to escort him and his son to the
airport.
  "Why the quick evac?" Hood asked. He was
sore and groggy, and the bright, white sunshine was like an
acid bath in his skull. "It's mostly for you,"
Mohalley said, "though we don't want it to seem
like we're hustling you out."
  "I don't follow," Hood said. "And why is
the NYPD handling this instead of the State
Department?" "Because the police are used to protecting
news makers," he said. dis"...And like it or not, you just
became one." Hood's cell phone beeped. It was
Ann Farris. Hood thanked Mohalley and got
out of bed. He walked toward the door where he
wouldn't wake Alexander and it was mercifully much
darker. "Good morning," Hood said.
  "Good morning," Ann said. "How are you?"
"Surprisingly well," he said.
  "I hope I didn't wake you-was
  "No," Hood said, "the State Department
did." "Anything important?" she asked.
  "Yeah," he said. "They want me up and out of
here."
  "I'm glad," she said. "You're pretty
exposed right now." "And obviously out of the loop,"
he said. "What the hell's been happening, Ann?"
  "It's what we press professionals call a
shitstorm," she said. "Since no one has the names
of what they're calling the two "SWAT men' who
went in before you, this whole thing has become the Paul
Hood Show." "Courtesy of Mala
Chatterjee," Hood said. "She's not very happy with
you," Ann said. "She says you risked your
daughter's life needlessly for a speedy and
criminal resolution to the crisis."
  "Up hers," Hood replied.
  "Can I quote you on that?" Ann quipped.
  "Banner headline," Hood replied. "What's
the fallout so far?" "Security-wise, Bob
Herbert's on top of that," she said. "You're the
only face on a team that helped kill terrorists
from three different countries. Bob's just starting
to sift through the possible links they had with other
terrorist groups or the sicko nationalists who may
want to avenge them."
  "Yeah, well, forgive me for not having worried
about that," Hood said bitterly.
  "This isn't a question of blame or forgiveness," the
press liaison said. "It's about special
interests. It's what
  I've been telling all of you for years. Spin
control isn't a luxury anymore. The way every
system in the world is interconnected, it's a
necessity."
  That symbiosis was true, Hood had to admit.
And it was sometimes true in unexpected ways.
Fifteen years before, intelligence collected
by Bob Herbert's CIA team was routinely made
available to other American intelligence
groups, including Naval intelligence. When
Naval analyst Jonathan Pollard turned over
U.s. intelligence secrets to the Israelis in
the 1980's, several of those secrets were
subsequently given to Moscow in exchange for the
release of Jewish refugees. Hardline
Communists in Moscow used that intelligence to plot
against the Russian government. Years later, when
Op-Center became embroiled in thwarting the coup
attempt, Herbert's own data was used against him.
  "How is this playing in the press?" Hood
asked. "On the national oped pages it's playing very
well," Ann said. "For the first time in history, the
liberal and conservative press are united.
They're portraying you as a "hero-dad." his
  "And on the international oped pages?" he asked.
"You could run for Prime Minister in Great
Britain and Israel and probably win," she said.
"Other than that, the news isn't good. The
secretary-general described you as "just another
impatient American with a gun." She's demanding
an investigation and house arrest. The rest of the world
press I've seen so far has picked up that
mantra." "Bottom line?" Hood asked.
  "Just what you said," she told him.
"You're being evacuated. No one in the State
Department or the White House has decided how
to play any of this yet. I guess
  they want you here to help figure it out. Though I
will tell you that Bob has taken the precaution of
contacting the Chevy Chase police and ordering up
some security for your home. They're there now. Just in
case."
  Hood thanked her, then woke Alexander to get
him ready. Hood had always been very open with his
kids, and as they dressed, he told the boy
exactly what had happened the night before. Alexander
was dubious until the NYPD showed up to escort
Hood and his son from the hotel. The six officers
treated Hood as one of their own, commending him as they
led the two through the basement to the garage and a waiting
motorcade of three squad cars. The rock-star
exit impressed Alexander more than anything he'd
experienced in New York.
  The Hoods and the other families flew back
to Washington, D.c., on an Air Force 737.
Sharon had been very quiet during the hour flight.
She sat with Harleigh beside her, the young girl's head
on her shoulder. Hood had sat across the aisle,
watching. Like most of the young musicians,
Harleigh had been given a mild sedative to help
her sleep. Unlike most of the girls, however, her
sleep was punctuated by tiny whines, shouts, and
spasms. Maybe the greatest tragedy of all,
Hood realized, was that he hadn't saved Harleigh
from that damn room. The poor girl was still there in spirit
if not in body.
  The aircraft landed at Andrews Air Force
Base, ostensibly so the military could assure the
privacy of the children. But Hood knew better.
Andrews was where Op-Center was based. After they
taxied, Hood saw Op-Center's white van
waiting for him on the tarmac. Lowell Coffey and
Bob Herbert were both visible in the open side
door. Sharon didn't see the men until she was
on her way
  down the steps. Hood acknowledged them with a nod.
They remained in the van.
  The State Department had provided wheelchairs
for anyone who wanted them. They also provided a
bus to bring everyone home. An official told the
parents that their cars would be collected from the airport
later that day.
  Sharon and Hood both helped Harleigh into a
wheelchair. Alexander manfully took his
place behind the chair as Sharon turned to her husband.
  "You're not coming with us, are you?" Sharon asked.
Her voice was flat and withdrawn, her eyes
distant.
  "I honestly didn't know they'd be here," he
said, jerking a thumb toward the van.
  "But you're not surprised."
  "No," he admitted. "I did kill someone
on foreign soil. There's going to be fallout from that.
But you'll be okay. Bob's arranged for
round-the-clock police protection at the house."
  "I wasn't worried," Sharon said and turned
toward the chair. Hood took her hand in his. She
stopped. "Sharon, don't do this." "Do what?" she
asked. "Go home with our children?" "Don't shut me
out," he said.
  "I'm not shutting you out, Paul," Sharon said.
"Just like you, I'm trying to stay calm and deal with
things. What we decide over the next few days
is going to affect our daughter for the rest of her
life. I want to be emotionally ready to make those
decisions." "We have to be ready to make those
decisions," Hood said. "That's our job."
  "I hope so," Sharon said. "But you've got
two families again. I'm not going to waste
any more energy fighting for equal time."
  "Two families?" Hood said. "Sharon, I
didn't ask for this to happen. I was out of
Op-Center! If I'm back, it's because I'm in
the middle of an international incident. I-we
won't be able to handle this alone."
  Just then, the State Department official came
over. He told them the bus was loaded and waiting.
Sharon told Alexander to go ahead. She said she'd
be there in a moment. Hood gave his son a wink and
told him to keep a careful eye on his sister.
Alexander said he would.
  Hood looked back at his wife. Sharon was
looking up at him. There were tears in her eyes.
  "And when this international incident is finished?"
Sharon asked. "Will we have you then? Do you really think
you'll be happy helping to manage a household
instead of running a city or a government agency?"
  "I don't know," Hood admitted. "Give
me a chance to find out." "A chance?" Sharon smiled.
"Paul, this may not make any sense to you, but last
night, when I heard what you did for Harleigh, I
was angry at you."
  "Angry? Why?"
  "Because you risked your life, your
reputation, your career, your freedom, to save our
daughter," she said. "And that made you angry?"
Hood said. "I can't believe that-was "It did,"
she said. "All I ever wanted from you were little bits of
your life. Time for a violin recital, a soccer
game, a vacation once in a while. Dinner as a
family. Holidays with my parents. I rarely
got any of that. I couldn't even get you to sit with
me last night while our baby was in danger."
  "I was too busy trying to get her out-"
  "I know," she said. "And you did. You showed me
what you can do when you want to. When you want
to."...Are you saying I didn't want to be with my
family?" Hood said. "Sharon, you're stressed
out-"
  "I said you wouldn't understand," she told him. The
tears trickled down her cheeks. "I'd better
go."
  "No, wait," Hood said. "Not like this-was
  "Please, they're waiting," Sharon said. She
withdrew her hand and ran toward the bus.
  Hood watched his wife go. After the accordion
door was shut and the bus growled to life, Hood
started walking toward Coffey and Herbert.
  Now Hood was angry.
  He couldn't believe it. Even his wife had found
fault with what he'd done in the Security
Council chamber. Maybe she and Chatterjee should
hold a press conference.
  But the anger began to pass as Hood walked
toward the van. And just as suddenly, something else
began to eat at him. It was a mixture of guilt
and doubt, and it started bubbling up the moment Hood
saw Bob Herbert stretch out his big, welcoming
hand. The moment Hood realized that he no longer
felt so alone. The moment Paul Hood had to ask
himself the honest and very painful question:
  What if Sharon was right?
  Washington, D, C. Sunday, 10:00
A.m.
  The greetings were warm, and the good wishes were sincere
as Hood entered the van. There was no driver. After
Herbert shut the door and Hood had settled into the
passenger's seat, Coffey drove the short distance
to Op-Center. The attorney informed Hood that
they'd only be at Op-Center long enough for him
to shower, shave, and put on a clean suit Herbert
had brought from the house. "Why?" Hood asked.
"Where are we going?" "To the White House,"
Coffey said.
  "What's waiting for me there, Lowell?" Hood
asked. "I honestly don't know," Coffey
admitted. "Secretary-General Chatterjee is
flying down with Ambassador Meriweduir to see
President Lawrence. They're meeting at noon.
The president is the one who wants you there."
  "Any idea why?"
  "I can't imagine the president wants a he
said, she said thing," Coffey replied. "Anything
else I can think of is not good." "Meaning?" Hood
asked.
  "Meaning he may want to send you back to New
York in the custody of the American
ambassador," Coffey said. "To make sure
you're around to answer any questions the secretary-general
and her associates may have. A gesture of our
concern."
  Herbert's wheelchair was parked behind and between the
seats. "A gesture," he snorted. "Paul
saved the friggin" place. What he did took as
much guts as I've ever seen. Mike and Brett were
also great. But Paul-- when I heard that you were the one
who took the last guy out, I was never prouder of
anyone. Never."
  "Unfortunately," Coffey said,
"international law does not provide for "proud' as
a defense."
  "And I'm telling you, Lowell, if Paul is
sent to New York or the goddamned Hague and the
International Court of Supposed Justice,"
Herbert said, "or some other half-assed place where
they serve up scapegoat on hot coals, I'm
gonna take hostages."
  The debate was typical Herbert-Coffey and, as
usual, the real world was somewhere between the two
extremes. There were legal issues, to be sure,
but courts also took emotional exigencies
inffconsideration. Hood wasn't as concerned about that as
he was about the near future. He wanted to be with his
family, helping Harleigh through her recovery. He
couldn't do that if he were defending himself in some other
country.
  Hood also wanted to stay with Op-Center.
Maybe resignation had been an overreaction.
Maybe he should have taken a leave of absence.
  And maybe that's all academic now, he
reminded himself. A few days ago, his future was still
in his own hands. Now it was in the hands of the president
of the United States.
  Since no one else knew that Hood was
being brought here, none of the primary weekday staff was
present.
  The weekend team congratulated Hood for his
heroism and Harleigh's rescue. They wished him
luck and support with whatever came next. The hot
shower felt good on Hood's sore muscles, and the
fresh clothes felt even better. Fortyfive
minutes after arriving at Andrews, Hood was back
in the van with Herbert handling security and Coffey
at the wheel.
  Washington, D. C. Sunday, 11:45
A.m.
  Sitting in the limousine that was taking her to the
White House, Mala Chatterjee felt
unclean.
  It had nothing to do with her physical state, though
she could have used a long rest and a bath. She had
settled, instead, for a shower in her office and a nap
on the flight down. The feeling she had was the
result of watching diplomacy die in a
slaughterhouse. Though she hadn't been able to control
the bloodshed, she was determined to control the cleanup.
And it would be thorough.
  Mala Chatterjee had not spoken much with
Ambassador Flora Meriwether during
the ride up. As cohostess of the Saturday-night
event, the fifty-seven--year-old ambassador
had been late going to the Security Council, just as
Chatterjee had been. Thus, the ambassador and
her husband had not been among the hostages. However,
the ambassador had not remained with the other
delegates after the takeover. She had gone to her
office, claiming that this was a matter for Chatterjee
and her advisers to handle. That was true, although
Meriwether could not have put more distance between herself and the
takeover.
  The ambassador didn't want to appear
to pressure the
  UN into allowing American negotiators or
SWAT personnel to become involved, Chatterjee
knew. Which was ironic, given how the siege turned
out.
  Mala Chatterjee did not know how the
ambassador felt now. Or what the president was
thinking. Not that it mattered. The secretary-general
had insisted on this meeting because she needed to immediately
reestablish the right of the United Nations to settle
its own disputes and discipline those nations that broke
international law. The United Nations had been quick
to condemn Iraq for invading Kuwait. They
could be no less quick to bring the United States
to justice for interfering in the hostage crisis. The
international press was waiting en masse for the
limousine when it passed through the southwest appointment
gate. Ambassador Meriwether declined to speak
but waited while Chatterjee spoke to the group.
  "The events of the past eighteen hours have been
difficult ones for the United Nations and its
family," she said, "and we mourn the loss of so many
of our valued coworkers. While we are gratified
that the former hostages have been reunited with their
families, we cannot condone the methods that were used
to end the crisis. The success of the United Nations
and its operations depends upon the forbearance of the host
nations. I've asked for this meeting with the president and
Ambassador Meriwether so that we can begin
to accomplish two very important goals. First,
to reconstruct the events that undermined the sovereignty
of the United Nations, its charter, and its commitment
to diplomacy. And second, to make absolutely
certain that its sovereignty is not violated in the
future."
  Chatterjee thanked the group, ignoring shouted
questions and promising she'd have more to say after meeting with the
president. She hoped that she conveyed the
feeling that she'd felt violated by members of the
American military. The route to the Oval
Office is a zigzag that takes a visitor past
the office of the press secretary and the Cabinet
Room. Beyond the Cabinet Room is the office of the
president's executive secretary. This is the
only entrance to the Oval Office, and a member of the
Secret Service is stationed there at all times.
The president was ready promptly at noon. He
personally came out to welcome Mala Chatterjee.
Michael Lawrence stood six-foot-four, with a
close-cropped head of silvery gray hair and
dark, sun-weathered skin. His smile was wide and
genuine, his handshake was strong, and his deep voice
resonated from somewhere around his knees.
  "It's good to see you again, Madam
Secretary-General," he said. "Likewise,
Mr. President, though I wish the circumstances
were different," she replied.
  The president's blue gray eyes shifted
to Ambassador Meriwether. He had known her for
nearly thirty years. She had been a fellow
polysci student at NYU, and the president had
pulled her from academia to serve in the UN.
  "Flora," he said, "would you mind giving
us a few minutes?" "Not at all," she said.
  While the president's executive secretary
shut the door, the president showed
Secretary-General Chatterjee to a seat.
Chatterjee's shoulders were straight, her neck
tall and stiff. Dressed in a gray suit, no
tie, the president
  was more at ease as he used a remote to click
off the TV. The set had been tuned to CNN.
  "I heard your remarks to the press," the
president said. "When you talked about the events that
undermined the sovereignty of the United Nations, were you
referring to the terrorist attack?" Chatterjee sat
in a yellow armchair. She folded her hands on her
lap and crossed her legs.
  "No, Mr. President," the
secretary-general said. "That is very much a separate
issue. I was referring to the uninvited attack
by Mr. Paul Hood of your National Crisis
Management Center and two as yet unidentified
members of the United States military."
  "You're referring to the attack that ended the hostage
crisis," he said pleasantly.
  "The result is not the issue," Chatterjee
countered firmly. "At the moment, I am
deeply concerned with the means."
  "I see," he said. The president sat behind his
desk. "And what would you like to do about it?"
  "I would like for Mr. Hood to return to New
York and answer questions pertaining to the attack," she
said. "You want him to go right now?" the president
asked. "While his daughter's recovering from the
attack?"
  "He doesn't have to return immediately," she
replied. "The middle of the week would be acceptable."
  "I see. And these questions," the president said.
"What do you hope to accomplish?"
  "I need to formally ascertain whether laws were
broken and whether boundaries were overstepped," she
replied. "Madam Secretary-General," the
president said, "if
  I may, you're failing to see the larger picture
here." "And that is?"
  "I believe that the New York Police
Department, the State Department, the FBI, and
U.s. military units in the region acted with
extraordinary restraint and respect, given how
many young Americans were at risk. When the situation
deteriorated and your own security forces were
repulsed-- yes, three of our people did go
into the Security Council. But they did it
selflessly and effectively, like U.s. soldiers
have always done."
  "Their courage is not being questioned," Chatterjee
said. "But the law-abiding nature of the many does not
outweigh the heroic lawlessness of the few. If laws
were broken, then legal remedies may be required.
This is not whim on my part, Mr. President. This
is our charter. This is our law. And there have already
been demands that those laws be upheld."
  "Demands made by whom?" the president asked.
"By nations whose terrorists were killed in the attack?"
"By the civilized nations of the world," she replied.
"And to satisfy their civilized bloodlust, you'll
want to put Paul Hood on trial," the
president said. "Sarcasm noted," Chatterjee
said. "And yes, a trial is a possibility.
Mr. Hood's actions demand it."
  The president sat back. "Madam
Secretary-General, last night Paul Hood
became a hero to me and about two hundred and fifty
million other Americans. We had a few
villains in this, including a rogue CIA agent
who will probably spend the rest of her life in
prison, But there's no way on earth that
man is going to stand trial for saving his daughter from a
terrorist.."
  Chatterjee regarded the president for a moment.
"You will not turn him over for questioning?"
  "I think that pretty much sums up this
administration's position," the president said.
  "The United States will defy the will of the
international community?" she asked.
  "Openly and enthusiastically," the president
replied. "And frankly, Madam
Secretary-General, I don't think the
delegates to the United Nations will care for very long.
his
  "We are not the Congress, Mr. President,"
she said. "Don't misjudge our ability to remain
focused." "Never," the president said. "I'm
sure the delegates will be very focused trying to find
suitable schools and apartments when this administration
supports removing the United Nations from New
York to another world capital, say Khartoum or
Rangoon."
  Chatterjee felt herself flush. The bastard. The
bullying bastard. "Mr. President, I do not
respond to threats." "But you do," the president
said. "You responded to that one, quickly and
openly." It took her a moment to realize that he was
right. "No one likes to be pushed," the president
said, "and that's all we're doing here. What we need
to do is to find a nonconfrontational, nonthreatening
solution to this problem. One that's going to work better for
everyone." "Such as?" she asked. As frustrated as
Chatterjee was, she was still a diplomat. She would
listen. "A more productive way of appeasing those
irate delegates might be if the United
States were to begin paying all of its two billion
dollar debt," the president said. "The
delegates would have more money for UN programs
back home, such as the World Food Council, the
Children's Fund, the Institute for Training and
Research. And if we work this right, they'll feel as
though they've
  won something. They will have won American
capitulation on the debt issue. Your own status
will not suffer," he pointed out. Chatterjee looked
at him coldly. "Mr. President, I
appreciate the thought you've put into this. But there are
legal issues that cannot be dismissed."
  The president smiled. "Madam
Secretary-General, almost twenty-five years
ago, a Russian-Alexander
Solzhenitsyn -- said something at a commencement
address that this lawyer never forgot. "I have spent
all my life under a Communist regime," he
said, "and I will tell you that a society without any
objective legal scale is a terrible one
indeed. But a society with no other scale but the
legal one is not quite worthy of man either." his
  Chatterjee regarded the president carefully.
This was the first time since she'd entered the Oval
Office that she saw anything in his eyes, in his
expression, that approached sincerity. "Madam
Secretary-General," the president said, "you're
exhausted. May 1 make a suggestion?"
"Please," she said. "Why don't you go back
to New York, rest, and think about what I've
said," the president told her. "Think about how we
can work together to establish new moral objectives."
  "Instead of deciding old ones?" she asked.
"Instead of rehashing divisive ones," he
replied. "We need to heal the divide, not make it
wider." Chaterjee sighed and rose. "I believe
I can agree to at least that, Mr. President,"
she said. "I'm glad," he replied. "I'm
sure the rest will fall into place."
  The president came from behind his desk.
He shook her hand and walked her toward the door.
  The secretary-general hadn't expected the
meeting to unfold like this. She had known the president
would resist her demand but thought that she'd be able to use
the press to sway him. Now, what could she tell
reporters? That the president had been a bastard.
Instead of turning over an American father, he'd
offered to put the UN back on sturdy financial
footing and help thousands of fathers in underdeveloped
countries worldwide.
  As they crossed the thick blue carpet with the gold
presidential seal, Chatterjee thought how ironic
it was. Coming to the White House, she'd felt
unclean because diplomacy had died. Yet here, in this
room, it had just been practiced with skill and
intelligence. Why, then, did she feel even
dirtier than before?
  Washington, D. C. Sunday, 12:08 P.m.
  Paul Hood had been in enough politically and
emotionally charged situations, both in government and on
Wall Street, to know that the outcome of important
meetings was often decided before the meetings were called.
Key people, often no more than two, spoke or got
together beforehand. By the time everyone else arrived, the
talk was mostly for show.
  This time, there wasn't even a show. Not inside the
office, anyway. .
  Hood had waved to the press on his way in but
declined to answer any questions. When he entered the
Oval Office, Ambassador Meriwether was
chatting with the president's executive secretary,
forty-two-year-old Elizabeth Lopez. The two
were comparing perspectives on the previous day's
activities. They stopped when Hood arrived.
  Hood had always found Lopez to be polite but
formal. Today she was warm and welcoming. She offered
him coffee from the president's private pot of
Kona, which he accepted. The usually poker-faced
ambassador was also unusually outgoing. Hood thought
it was ironic that the only mother who seemed
to disapprove of him today was the mother of his own children.
  The ambassador told Hood that Mala
Chatterjee was inside. "Let me guess,"
Hood said. "She's demanding that I appear in
front of some ad hoc committee comprised of people who
hate the United States."
  "You're jaded," the ambassador smiled. "But
not wrong," Hood said. "The secretary-general is
not an unreasonable woman," Ambassador
Meriwether said, "just idealistic and still a little
green. However, early this morning, the president and
I discussed a possible solution to the problem. One
which we believe the secretary-general will find
acceptable."
  Hood sipped his black coffee and was about to sit
down when the door to the Oval Office opened.
Mala Chatterjee walked out, followed by the
president. The secretary-general did not look
happy.
  Hood put his mug aside as the president
offered Ambassador Meriwether his hand.
  "Madam Ambassador, thank you for coming down,"
the president said. "I'm glad to see you're all
right." "Thank you, sir," she said. "Ambassador
Meriwether," the president said, "the
secretary-general and I just had a very productive
exchange of ideas. Perhaps we can fill you in while
we walk you back to the southwest appointment gate."
"Very good," she said.
  The president's eyes shifted to Hood.
"Paul, it's good to see you," he said, offering his
hand. "How's your daughter today?" "Pretty shaken
up," Hood admitted. "Understandably," said the
president. "Our prayers
  will be with you. If there's anything we can do,
please ask." "Thank you, sir."
  "In fact, I think we've got things pretty
well under control here," the president said. "Why
don't you go home to your daughter?" "llank you,
sir," Hood said.
  "We'll let you know if there's anything else,"
the president said, "though it would be a good idea if
you stayed away from reporters for a few days, let
Op-Center's press rep handle this. At least
until the secretary-general has had a chance
to talk to her people in New York."
  "Of course," Hood said.
  Hood shook the hands of the president and the
ambassador. Then he shook the hand of the
secretary-general. It was the first time she looked at
him since the night before. Her eyes were dark and
tired, her mouth was downturned, and there was gray in
her hair he hadn't noticed before. She said nothing.
She didn't have to. She hadn't won this battle
either. A security area sat between the end of the main
corridor and the west-wing entrance." Lowell
Coffey and Bob Herbert were there, chatting with a pair
of secret service agents. They had not been
invited to the meeting but wanted to be nearby in case
Hood needed moral or tactical
support or even a lift, depending on where he
had to go after the meeting. They approached Hood as the
president, secretary-general, and ambassador
went out to meet reporters. "That was quick," Herbert
said. "What happened?" Coffey asked.
  "I don't know," Hood said. "Ambassador
Meriwether and I were not in the meeting." "Did the
president say anything to you?" Coffey asked.
Hood smiled weakly. He put a hand on the
attorney's shoulder. "He told me to go home
to my daughter, which is exactly what I intend
to do." The three of them left the White House.
They avoided reporters by heading toward West
Executive Avenue and then making their way south
toward the Ellipse, where they'd parked. As they
left, Hood couldn't help but feel bad for
Chatterjee. She wasn't a bad person. She
wasn't even the wrong person for this job. The
problem was the institution itself Nations invaded other
nations or committed genocide. Then the United
Nations gave them a forum to explain their acts. Just
allowing them to be heard had the effect of
legitimizing the immoral. It occurred to Hood
then that there might be a way for Op-Center to help
rectify those abuses. A way he could
use the team's resources to identify international
criminals and bring them to justice. Not to trial
to justice. Before they struck, if possible. It was
something to think about. For though he owed his daughter a
father, a family, he owed her something else as well.
Something very few people could hope to deliver. A saner
world in which she could raise her own family.
  SIXTY Los Angeles, California
Sunday, 3:11 P.m. He had been to many
places in the world. The Arctic. The tropics.
Each had their individual charms and beauty. But he
had never been anywhere as instantly appealing as this
place. He walked out of the terminal and sucked down
the breezy warm air. The late afternoon sky was clear
blue, and he swore he could taste the ocean in it.
He tucked his passport in his sports jacket and
looked around. The courtesy buses were stopping along
the curb, and he selected one that was going to a brandname
hotel. He didn't have a reservation. But when he
went to the desk, he would tell the receptionist he
did. He had forgotten the confirmation number, it was
their job to remember, not his. Even if they couldn't
accommodate him they would scurry to find him some
place to stay. Brand-name hotels did that. He
sat down in the tram and turned around
to look out the window. The spidery off-white control
tower flashed by. There was rich greenery by the side
of the road. The traffic moved swiftly, not like it
did in New York and Paris. Ivan
Georgiev was going to like it here. He would have liked
South America, too. But things
  368 OP-CENTER hadn't gone as planned.
Sometimes they didn't. Which was why, unlike the
others, he had an escape route. If everything
went wrong, Annabelle Hampton was supposed
to send her floaters to collect him. The plan was for
him to meet her later, at the hotel, and arrange for
her to be paid either from the ransom or from his own funds.
When she didn't show, he assumed the worst.
Later, when the floaters returned to put him on a
plane and get him out of the country, he learned that
she'd been taken. She would probably
plea-bargain her way to fifteen years in prison
by telling authorities about the CIAST UNTAC
link, they said. Which was why he had to leave. The
CIA planned to deny everything. Georgiev was
supposed to fly on from Los Angeles to New
Zealand. But the Bulgarian didn't want to go
to New Zealand. He didn't want the CIA to know
where he was. Besides, he had money and he
had ideas. He also had connections with Eastern
European expatriates, especially the
Romanians, who had set up film companies in
Hollywood. Georgiev smiled. His
associates had told him that the film industry was
a ruthless, sexy business. A business where a
foreign accent was considered exotic and cultured and was
a guaranteed invitation to parties. A business where people
didn't stab you in the back in private. They
stabbed you in the front, in public, where others could
see. Georgiev smiled. He had the accent and he
would be happy to stab people wherever they chose. He was
going to like it here. He was going to like it very, very much.