was happening.
“I’ve given you my answer,” she replied.
A moment later, Paul Hood called back. Enzo Donati handed her the cell phone.
“Yes?” Chatterjee said anxiously.
“She turned on us,” Hood said.
“God, no,” Chatterjee said. “Then that’s what’s happening inside.”
“What’s happening?” Hood said.
“A struggle,” she said. “They’re going to execute the hostage.”
“Not necessarily,” Hood said. “One of my men is on the way up. He’s dressed in civilian clothes—”
“No!” the secretary-general said.
“Madam Secretary, you’ve got to let us handle this,” Hood said. “You don’t have a plan. We do—”
“You had a plan, and we tried it,” she said. “It failed.”
“This one won’t—”
“No, Mr. Hood!” Chatterjee said as she cut him off. She felt like screaming. The phone beeped again. She shut it off and handed it to Donati. She told her assistant to leave.
It was as though someone had spun the world like a top. She was dizzy, electrified, and exhausted at the same time. Is this what war was like? A white-water river that carried you to places where the best you could do, the best you could
Chatterjee looked at the Security Council door. She would have to try to go in again. What else was there to do?
Just then, there was a commotion from the hallway just past the Economic and Social Council chambers. Several of the delegates turned around, and members of the security force were going over to see what was happening.
“Someone’s coming!” shouted one of the security police.
“Quiet, damn you!” Mailman hissed.
The lieutenant ran over to the police line. He arrived just as the barefoot Colonel August shouldered through the crowd of delegates. August raised both hands to show the security people that he was unarmed, but he didn’t stop moving.
“Let him through!” Mailman said, his voice an insistent whisper.
The line of blue shirts parted immediately, and August stepped through. As he did, he reached into his pants pockets and withdrew both Berettas. The officer’s movements were fast and sure, no wasted action. He was less than ten feet from the door. All that stood between him and the Security Council chamber was Mala Chatterjee.
The secretary-general looked at August’s face as he neared. His eyes reminded her of a tiger she’d once seen in the wild in India. This man had smelled his prey, and nothing was going to come between them. At the moment, those eyes seemed like the only steady thing in her universe.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Leon Trotsky had once written that violence seemed to be the shortest distance between two points. The secretary-general didn’t want to believe that. When she was a student at the University of Delhi, Professor Sandhya A. Panda, an acolyte of Mohandas Gandhi, had taught pacifism as though it were a religion. Chatterjee had practiced that faith devoutly. Yet in five hours, everything that could go wrong did. Her best efforts, her self-sacrifice, her calm thoughts. At least Colonel Mott’s aborted attempt had managed to get a wounded girl to the hospital.
Just then, there was a soft cry from the other side of the door. It was a girl’s voice, high and muffled.
“No!” the voice sobbed.
Chatterjee choked on an involuntary cry of her own. She turned reflexively to go to the girl, but August stopped her with a firm nudge as he rushed past.
Armed with a handgun, Lieutenant Mailman followed August. He stopped several paces behind the colonel.
Chatterjee started after them. Mailman turned and held her back.
“Let him go,” the lieutenant said quietly.
Chatterjee didn’t have the energy or will to resist. In a madhouse, only the insane are at home. They both watched as the Colonel paused at the door, but only for a moment. He turned the handle with the heel of his left hand and remained standing. Once again, his movements were clean and efficient.
A hearbeat later, he followed both guns in.
FORTY-SEVEN
Shortly after answering the TAC-SAT call from Barone, Annabelle Hampton went to the closet, took one of the last remaining Berettas, and walked into the hallway. The corridor was empty. The bastards who had tried to bully her were gone. She headed past the closed offices, custodial closet, and rest rooms toward the stairwell.
Annabelle didn’t want to take the elevator for two reasons. First, there were security cameras built into the ceiling. Second, the men from Op-Center might be waiting for her in the lobby. She wanted to take the stairs to the cellar and slip out the side door. She would reconnect with Georgiev later, as planned. She had sent the two CIA floaters to pick him up at the UN infirmary. Annabelle would tell her superior that she had Georgiev removed because of what he knew about CIA operations in Bulgaria, Cambodia, and in the rest of the Far East. She didn’t want that information falling into the hands of the United Nations. She would also tell him that the men from Op- Center were in league with the terrorists. That would keep them at bay long enough for her to collect her share of the ransom and get out of the country. If there was no ransom, she’d still use the money Georgiev had paid her up front to go to South America.
The door opened in. It was solid metal, as required by fire laws. There was no window, so the young woman opened it cautiously in case anyone was on the other side.
No one was waiting there. Annabelle let the door shut and started across the concrete landing. There were five floors to the cellar; Hood or one of his men could still be waiting for her down there. She didn’t think the police would be there. NYPD policy was to throw a tight net. They would have come up to the fourth floor to shut her in, not give her an opportunity to get away.
She started down the steps. And then the lights went off. Even the security spots went down, which could only be controlled from the utility room. The young woman thought angrily,
Annabelle considered going back, but she didn’t want to waste the time or risk a showdown with whoever had cut the lights. Switching the gun to her left hand, she grabbed the handrail with her right hand and made her way down slowly. She reached the landing, turned the corner, and started down the second half of the stairs. She was pleased with the progress she was making.
Until a bright light snapped on in front of her and then a sharp, crippling pain struck her left thigh.
She fell over, unable to breathe and losing the gun as pain rocked her entire left side.
“Put ’em back on!” someone shouted.
The stairwell lights snapped back, and Annabelle looked up. She saw a beefy, black-haired man looming over her. He was dressed in a white shirt and wearing navy blue trousers. In his thick hands were a radio and a black police-style baton. He was State Department Security. The name tag on his shirt said Deputy Chief Bill Mohalley.
Mohalley picked up her gun and tucked it in his waistband. Annabelle tried to get up but couldn’t. She could barely breathe. As she lay there, she heard the door open on the fourth-floor landing.
While the State Department officer radioed for the rest of his team to come to the third floor, Hood ran down the stairs. He must have been the one who turned off the lights. Hood stopped on the landing and looked down at
