State of Siege

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. Harleigh 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. Dorn 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.”

SIXTEEN

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 Chatterjee’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—”

“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.”