out, it meant there probably wasn’t anyone up ahead. The animals scattered as August moved by.
The Colonel crouched lower as he neared the end of the park. Beyond the greenery was an open courtyard roughly seventy feet across that led to the main lobby of the General Assembly Building. There were still too many bushes and trees for him to see it clearly.
August was carrying one of the two Berettas that Rodgers had given him. The other handgun was in his right pants pocket. The colonel had posed as a tourist on his recent mission to Spain, a disguise that had taught him to wear pants with pockets deep enough to carry a concealed weapon. He was also still carrying the radio, just in case he needed it to help him get inside. Otherwise, August would have shut it off and left it behind. A communication or a burst of static at the wrong time could give his position away. Ironically, that was the very thing he might need to get inside the building.
Pausing when he was about two hundred and fifty feet from the General Assembly Building, August looked past the other, smaller sculptures toward the United Nations compound itself. In addition to three helicopters hovering over the area, the spotlights were on in the wide courtyard and a half-dozen NYPD officers were stationed at the main lobby entrance. Rodgers was right. The police had been allowed to move from their command booths on the street to the grounds when the UN guards were called away. August couldn’t risk taking the steps and being spotted. The NYPD wasn’t like the UN police. They were more like Striker. They knew how to take people down and keep them down. When he was a NATO adviser, August had spent time with a former NYPD Emergency Service chief of department who had briefed NATO strategists on hostage situations. New York Police Department policy was to establish and secure an inner perimeter, as tight as possible, then bring in specialized weapons, heavy vests, and be ready to tackle the hostage-takers in case negotiations broke down. This situation would have ended hours ago if Chatterjee hadn’t been so obliging. It was all part of the post-Desert Storm world mind-set. Someone breaks the law. Then, in the cause of world peace, everyone else talks and negotiates while the lawbreaker grows stronger and more entrenched. When you finally decide to do something about it, you need a coalition.
That was crap. All you needed was the guy who started it in your gunsight. He’d back down fast enough.
August rarely paid attention to clocks. He always moved as fast as he could, as efficiently as he could, and assumed that he had less time than he did. To date, he’d never missed a deadline. But even without checking his watch, he knew he didn’t have time to explain who he was or what he was doing here. Instead, he decided to leave the garden and go down to the FDR Drive. The highway ran under the wide esplanade that bordered the garden on the east. Though he’d have to drop down instead of using the stairs behind the UN, it was the only way he’d get to the garage unseen.
Turning toward the river, August made his way alongside the gravel path that led to the concrete walkway. Crossing the esplanade, he came to a low metal fence and swung over it. Lying on his belly, facing east, he looked over the edge of the walkway. It was a drop of about twelve feet to the highway, but there was nothing to hold onto. Removing the radio from his pocket, he replaced it with the gun. Then he took off his belt, slid the flap-end through the radio case, and pulled until the case rested against the buckle. Then he looped the belt around one of the thin stanchions that supported the rail. Holding the two ends of the strap, he lowered himself over the side. Still holding the buckle end of the belt and the radio, he let go of the other end and dropped the five feet to the asphalt.
August landed with his knees slightly bent. He stood quickly. The United Nations garage was to the south, directly ahead. August couldn’t see the site clearly yet, since it was blocked by the corner of a building on the northeastern side of the street.
August put his belt back on as he crept through the eerie silence under the highway. As he neared the garage entrance, he saw two policemen standing to the east of the open door. The inside of the garage was lighted, but the outside was dark. If he could draw the officers away, then getting to the door unseen wouldn’t be a problem.
August looked at his watch. In twenty seconds, Rodgers would turn his own radio to maximum volume. With his own radio turned up, the overload would generate a static feedback. When that happened, the police would do one of three things. Both officers would go to investigate; one officer would investigate while the other remained at his post; or they would call for backup.
August expected that both officers would go. They couldn’t afford to leave a possible threat unchecked, and he imagined that the NYPD followed the field policy of most big-city police departments. That officers were not allowed to enter a potentially dangerous situation alone.
If that didn’t happen, August was going to have to take down one or both officers. He didn’t relish attacking men who were on the same team, but he was prepared to do it. He shifted to a confrontational mind-set, with his focus on the goal and not the means.
The colonel moved quickly through the shadows under the highway, then put his radio down beside the curb. He made sure the volume was turned all the way up. Then, with just seconds remaining, he ducked into a darkened doorway across from the garage. He was approximately thirty feet from the corner and roughly the same distance from the garage.
August slipped off his shoes.
Less than five seconds later, a piercing screech ripped through the night. August watched as the officers looked over. One drew his gun and flashlight and started toward the street while the other radioed in the 10–59, which identified it as a non-crime-related noise.
“Sounds like a radio,” said the officer who was reporting the incident. “We have anyone else on the block?”
“Negative,” said the dispatcher.
“I copy that,” said the officer. “I’m going over with Orlando.”
The first police officer approached cautiously with his flashlight turned toward the side of the building on the northeast corner. The second officer stayed slightly to the side, his gun drawn and his radio on. He was betting that these men would shoot him on sight if they saw him. He had to make certain that they did not.
While the radio continued to crackle loudly, August watched the officers. When they reached the corner, he ducked low and ran across the street in his stocking feet. He made no sound, did not feel anything he stepped on. The goal was all that mattered. And as he entered the garage and saw the elevator ahead, he had only one goal.
To win.
FORTY-SIX
The secretary-general was still standing in the corridor outside the Security Council. Little had changed since the siege began. A few of the delegates had left, and others had come up. Security personnel were more agitated than before, especially those who had taken part in the aborted assault. Young Lieutenant Mailman, a British officer who had come here after helping to plan Desert Fox, was the most restless of all. After Chatterjee had phoned the terrorists to relay Hood’s message, the officer walked over.
“Ma’am?” he said.
The silence was oppressive. Though he was whispering, his voice sounded very loud.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Ma’am, Colonel Mott’s plan was a good one,” he insisted. “We couldn’t have anticipated the variable, the other gunmen.”
“What are you asking?” she said.
“There are only three terrorists left now,” he told her, “and I have a plan that might work.”
“No,” she said adamantly. “How do you know there won’t be other variables?”
“I don’t,” he admitted. “Soldiering isn’t about predicting the future. It’s about fighting wars. And you can’t do that standing on the sidelines.”
There were sounds from behind the door of the Security Council. Whimpering, knocking, snarls. Something
