Between them was a large painting that depicted the phoenix soaring from the ashes, the world symbolically rising from the destruction of World War II. 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.”
THIRTEEN
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 The crisis manager had been replaced by the father, one who had just learned the improbable price of his daughter’s freedom.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
