“Good Christ,” Mott muttered.
“This is not your former SEALs command,” Chatterjee said sternly. “We shall ‘seek a solution by negotiation, enquiry, mediation, conciliation, arbitration, judicial settlement—’ ”
“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
“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 indicated 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
“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
“Of course,” the officer said.
He sounded relieved. Chatterjee was smart going out with a soldier at her side.
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 TAC-SAT 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.
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 Chatterjee’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.
EIGHTEEN
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
