Chatterjee hadn’t doubted her ability to handle this job. She had never encountered any problem that couldn’t be resolved by making the first conciliatory move. So many conflicts were caused by the need to save face; remove that element, and the disputes often solved themselves.
Mala Chatterjee held tight to that belief as she and Colonel Mott rode the elevator down to the second floor. Selected reporters had been allowed into this section of the building, and she answered a few questions as she walked toward the Security Council chamber.
Secretaries-general had said those exact words or words like those so many times, in so many places around the world, they had almost become a mantra. Yet they were very different here. This wasn’t a situation where people had been fighting and hating and dying for years. The war was new, and the enemy was very determined. The words came from her soul, not from memory. Nor were they the only words that had come to mind. After leaving the reporters, she and the colonel walked past the sprawling
Representatives of Security Council nations were gathered to the north of the chambers of the Economic and Social Council. Between them and the adjoining Trusteeship Council chamber were twenty-seven guards, the entire force that Colonel Mott had under his command. There was also a team of emergency medical technicians from the NYU Medical Center, which was located ten blocks south of the United Nations. The technicians were all volunteers.
Secretary-General Chatterjee and Colonel Mott neared the Security Council chamber double doors. They stepped a few yards away. The colonel removed the radio from the loop in his belt. It was preset to the correct frequency. He switched the unit on and handed it to the secretary-general. Chatterjee’s hand was cold as she took it. She looked at her watch. It was ten-thirty.
She’d gone over the words in her head as she walked here, made them as concise as she could.
If the terrorists admitted her, if the deadline passed without a death, then there would be room for talk. For negotiation. Perhaps she could convince them to keep her there in exchange for the children. Chatterjee wasn’t even thinking beyond that, to her own fate. For a negotiator, the goal was everything, the means secondary. Truth, deceit, risk, compassion, coldheartedness, resolve, seductiveness; everything was coin of the realm.
Chatterjee’s slender fingers held the radio tightly as she raised the mouthpiece toward her lips. She had to make sure she sounded strong but nonjudgmental. She swallowed to make sure the words didn’t catch. Her voice had to be clear. She moistened her lips.
“This is Secretary-General Mala Chatterjee,” she said slowly. She’d decided to add her first name to deformalize the introduction. “Would it be all right if I came in?”
There was nothing but silence on the radio. The terrorists had said they’d be listening to this channel; they had to have heard. Chatterjee could swear she heard Colonel Mott’s heart throbbing in his chest. She could certainly hear her own, like sandpaper up around her ears.
A moment later, there was a loud crack from behind the double doors of the Security Council chamber. It was followed by screams from deep within the chamber. An instant after that, the nearest of the two doors opened outward. The Swede fell out, except for the back of his head.
That was on the wall inside the chamber
NINETEEN
Paul Hood had composed himself and returned to the cafeteria. He reached it just as representatives from Department of State security police arrived. Since the parents were all U.S. citizens, the American ambassador had requested that they be moved at once to DOS offices on the other side of First Avenue. The reason given was security, but Hood suspected that sovereignty was the real issue. The United States did not want American citizens interrogated by foreign nationals about a terrorist attack on international soil. It would set a dangerous precedent to allow any government or representatives thereof to hold Americans who were not charged with breaking foreign or international law.
None of the parents liked the idea of moving from the building where their children were being held. But they went, accompanied by Deputy Chief of Security Bill Mohalley, DOS. Hood made Mohalley out to be about fifty. From the way he stood, with his big shoulders back, his manner clipped and commanding, he had probably come to DOS via the military. The dark-haired Mohalley reiterated that their own government could keep them better protected and better informed. Both statements were true, though Hood wondered how much the government would actually tell them. Armed terrorists had gotten through American security systems to reach the UN. If anything happened to the children, there would be unprecedented lawsuits.
As they were leaving the cafeteria and starting up the central staircase, the gunshot from the Security Council chamber echoed through the building.
Everything stopped. Then there were a few distant shouts among the otherwise awful silence.
Mohalley asked everyone to continue quickly up the stairs. It took a long second before anyone moved. Some of the parents insisted that they go back to the correspondents’ room to be close to their children. Mohalley told them that the area had been closed off by United Nations security personnel and it wouldn’t be possible to get in. Mohalley urged them to go ahead so he could get them to safety and find out what had happened. They started moving, though several of the mothers and a few of the fathers began to weep.
Hood put his arm around Sharon. Even though his own legs were weak, he helped her up the stairs. There had only been one shot, so he assumed a hostage had been killed. Hood had always felt that was the worst way to die, robbed of everything to help make someone else’s point. A life used as a bloody, impersonal exclamation point, one’s loves and dreams ended as though they didn’t matter. There was nothing colder to contemplate than that.
When they reached the lobby, Mohalley received a call on his radio. As he stepped aside to take it, the parents filed into the spotlit park situated between the General Assembly Building and 866 United Nations Plaza. They were met there by two of Mohalley’s aides.
The call was brief. When it was finished, Mohalley rejoined the group at the head. As they filed past, he asked Hood if he could talk to him for a moment.
“Of course,” Hood said. He felt his mouth grow very dry. “Was that a hostage?” he asked. “The gunshot?”
“Yes, sir,” Mohalley said. “One of the diplomats.”
Hood felt sick and relieved at the same time. His wife had stopped a few steps away. He motioned for her to go ahead, that everything was okay. At the moment,
“Mr. Hood,” Mohalley said, “we did a quick background check on all the parents, and your Op-Center record came up—”
“I’ve resigned,” Hood said.
“We know,” Mohalley told him. “But your resignation doesn’t become effective for another twelve days. In the meantime,” he went on, “we have a potentially serious problem that you’ll be able to help us with.”
Hood looked at him. “What kind of problem?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Mohalley told him.
Hood hadn’t really expected Mohalley to tell him. Not here. The State Department was paranoid about security outside its own offices, though here they had a right to be. Every diplomat, every consulate was here to help their country. That included being “on the line,” using everything from eavesdropping to electronics to listen in on conversations.
