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 Assembly 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: UNI-QUE 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 — geographic 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.
FIFTEEN
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. Dorn, 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 open, 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. Dorn 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.
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
