them he wanted to continue writing the kinds of articles his father wrote, but not just to promote Sihanouk. He wanted to draw the NADK killers out and repay them for what they did to his family. Before allowing Hang and Ty to use themselves as bait, the KPNLF’s chief intelligence officer trained them in the use of weapons. Two months later, the small band of Khmer Rouge terrorists came to their hut. Hang and Ty had planned well and cut them down even before the KPNLF guard could summon help.
After that, the two were taught surveillance techniques. Along the way, they also learned the art of assassination. A CIA manual that had been found in Laos taught them how to use hat pins, rock-filled stockings, even stolen charge cards to stab eyes, break necks, and slice throats. They learned these skills to serve their country and also in the hope that one day they would find the monster who had ordered Phum’s death.
The monster who had eluded them because he was under the protection of the Khmer Rouge.
The monster who they had lost track of when he left Cambodia, and who they had found again only recently.
The monster who was somewhere in this room.
A monster named Ivan Georgiev.
THIRTY-ONE
Hood felt lonely and scared as he rode the elevator to the seventh-floor lounge of the State Department. That was where the other parents were waiting. There was no one else in the elevator; just his own sorry reflection, distorted and tinted by the highly polished gold-colored walls.
If he weren’t certain that security cameras were watching him and that he’d end up getting hauled away as a menace, Hood would have screamed and thrown uppercuts at the air. He was deeply worried about the rumors of a shooting, and he was miserable being on the sidelines.
The elevator door opened, and as Hood stepped toward the security desk, his cell phone beeped. He stopped walking and turned his back on the guard before answering.
“Yes?” he said.
“Paul, it’s Bob. Is Mike with you?”
Hood knew Herbert’s voice very well. The intelligence chief was talking fast, which meant that he was worried about something. “Mike went to see that local office manager you told him about. Why?”
Hood knew that Herbert would have to speak obliquely, since this was a potentially open line.
“Because there are two people in the target zone that he needs to know about,” Herbert said.
“What kind of people?” Hood pressed.
“Heavy-duty rappers,” Herbert replied.
People with rap sheets, a long history of no good. This was maddening. He had to know more.
“Their presence and the timing could be a coincidence,” Herbert said, “but I don’t want to risk it. I’ll call Mike at the other office.”
Hood walked back to the elevator and pushed the button. “I’ll be there when you do,” he said. “What’s the name?”
“Doyle Shipping.”
“Thanks,” Hood said as the elevator arrived. He folded up the phone and stepped inside.
Sharon would never forgive him for this. Never. And he wouldn’t blame her. She was not only alone among strangers, but he was certain the State Department wasn’t telling the parents anything. But if the terrorists had associates on the inside that no one else knew about, he wanted to be on hand to help Rodgers and August think things through.
On the way down, Hood pulled his Op-Center ID from his wallet. He hurried through the lobby back to First Avenue and ran across the street and up four blocks. He flashed the ID to an NYPD guard who had been posted outside the United Nations Plaza towers. Though the towers were not part of the UN complex per se, a lot of delegates maintained offices here. He went inside.
Hood was breathless as he signed the security register and went to the first bank of elevators that led to the lower floors. He still wanted to scream and punch the air. But at least he was going to get involved in what was going on. At least he would have something to focus on other than fear. Not hope, but something almost as good.
An offensive.
THIRTY-TWO
It was him.
The flat voice, the cruel eyes, the arrogant carriage — it was him, damn his soul. Ty Sokha couldn’t believe that after nearly ten years they had found Ivan Georgiev. Now that she’d heard his voice beneath the mask, been close enough to smell his sweat, she knew which of these monsters it was.
Several months before, an arms dealer named Ustinoviks, who provided the Khmer Rouge with weapons, had been asked to talk to Georgiev about a buy. An informant with the Khmer Rouge knew that Ty and Sary Hang were looking for him. The informant sold them the name of the arms dealer. Though they had missed the Bulgarian when he came to New York to talk to Ustinoviks the first time, they managed to get to Ustinoviks after Georgiev had gone. The offer they made the Russian was simple: Let them know when he was coming to pick up his weapons or they would turn Ustinoviks over to the American FBI.
The Russian had let them know when Georgiev was scheduled to pick up his purchase with the provision that they didn’t take him at that time. They agreed. As it happened, they didn’t want him then. They wanted him doing whatever it was he’d come here for, when the rest of the world could see, when they could draw attention to their own people, put an end to the countless murders in which they’d taken part as they tried to stop the Khmer Rouge and undermine the pathetically weak government of Norodom Sihanouk.
They’d watched Georgiev’s team make their buy from the roof of the club next door to the shop owned by Ustinoviks. Ty couldn’t really see him clearly then. Not as clearly as she had when she’d been at the UN camp, working as a cook, watching for Khmer Rouge infiltrators and seeing the degrading things for which Georgiev was responsible. But the government couldn’t do anything without proof of what was going on, and anyone who tried to get that proof — or who tried to get away, like poor Phum had — died.
After Georgiev and his people made their arms purchase, Ty and Hang followed them back to their hotel. The adjoining rooms had been booked, so they took the room beneath theirs. They ran a wire through the ceiling fixture to the floor of his room, attached a sound amplifier, and listened as Georgiev and his allies reviewed their plans.
Then they’d gone to the Permanent Mission of the Kingdom of Cambodia across the street and waited.
Ty Sokha turned her large, dark eyes from the stricken young girl lying beside her. The one who was barely older than Phum had been when she’d been murdered by one of Georgiev’s thugs. Ty looked over at Sary Hang, who was sitting on the floor, inside the circular table. The Cambodian operative had shifted his position slightly so that he could see Ty without seeming to watch her.
She nodded. He nodded back.
When Georgiev came back down the stairs, it would be time.
THIRTY-THREE
