“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
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.
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 north-side 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 peacekeeping 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 fitting because 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 he’d 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 run 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
