the young woman. His expression seemed sad.
“I thought — we had a deal,” she gasped.
“So did I,” Hood replied. “But I know what you did. I heard.”
“You’re lying,” she said. “I — saw you — in the camera.”
Hood just shook his head. Mohalley stepped over as his team ran up the stairs.
“My team will take it from here,” Mohalley said to Hood. “Thanks for your help.”
“Thanks for having given me your card,” Hood said. “Have you heard anything about the wounded girl?”
Mohalley nodded. “Barbara Mathis is on the operating table. She’s lost a lot of blood, and the bullet’s still in her. They’re doing everything they can, but it doesn’t look good.” He looked down at Annabelle. “She’s just fourteen years old.”
“I didn’t want — any of the children hurt,” Annabelle said.
Hood stepped back. Shaking his head again, he turned and ran down the stairs.
Annabelle lay back as other State Department security personnel arrived. Her thigh was throbbing painfully, and her back hurt where it had hit the stairs. But at least she was able to breathe again.
What Annabelle had said to Mohalley was true. She felt sorry that one of the young musicians might die. That wasn’t supposed to happen. If the secretary-general had cooperated, if she had done the right thing, none of the girls would have been hurt.
Without quite being able to wrap her brain around the idea, Annabelle knew that she was probably going to spend the rest of her life in prison. As disturbing as that was, however, what bothered her most was the fact that Paul Hood had outsmarted her.
That once again, a man had come between her and her goal.
FORTY-EIGHT
The wooden door of the Security Council opened outward. Colonel August stood in the doorway, simultaneously looking for the killer and making himself the target. He was wearing his bulletproof vest and was willing to trade hits if it would save a hostage’s life. The terrorist couldn’t shoot a hostage if he was shooting at August.
The first person August saw was a slender, teenage girl. She was on her knees less than five yards away. She was whimpering and shaking. August wasn’t sure who the girl was. The terrorist was standing very close behind her. Using peripheral vision, August noted the location of the other two terrorists. One of them was standing in the front of the Security Countil chamber, behind the semicircular desk. The other terrorist was standing right beside the door that led to the adjoining Trusteeship Council.
The terrorists were all dressed in black and wearing ski masks. The one nearest him was holding the girl’s long blonde hair by the roots, close to her forehead, so that her face was staring straight up. He had a gun pointed directly ahead, at the top of her skull.
August had the middle of the man’s mask in his gun sight, but he didn’t want to fire first. If he hit the terrorist, the man’s finger might tighten around the trigger and take the top of the girl’s head off. August knew that was wrong; if he had the shot, he should take it. The thought that this could be Paul Hood’s daughter stopped him.
The terrorist hesitated and then he did something that surprised August. He dropped directly behind the kneeling girl and then threw himself to his right, into the row of seats. Still holding the girl’s hair, he pulled her with him. Obviously, he did not want to trade gunfire. And now he had a shield.
The terrorist and the girl were four rows down the sloping gallery. August pocketed the Beretta that was in his right hand, turned to his left, and jogged a few feet along the back of the gallery. Silent in his bare feet, he put his free hand on the railing that ran along the seat backs of the last row. He leaped the green-velvet seats and immediately jumped the next row. He was now two rows from the terrorist and the girl.
“Downer, he’s coming for you!” one of the terrorists shouted. He had a French accent. “Behind you—”
“Get out or I’ll kill her!” shouted Downer, the pinned terrorist. “I’ll blow her goddam brains out!”
August was still two rows away. The man with the French accent started running toward him. He would be on the stairs in two or three seconds. The third man was covering the hostages.
“Barone, the gas!” the Frenchman said.
The third terrorist, Barone, ran toward a duffel bag that sat open in the front of the chamber, near the northside window. August finished hopping over the third row. He could now see Downer and the girl. They were on the floor of the next row. The terrorist was on his back with the girl faceup on top of him. But August had a problem.
The bottleneck had required preventing the girl’s death, disabling the nearest of the three terrorists, and establishing a beachhead in the back of the chamber before General Rodgers got here. That hadn’t happened. Unfortunately, not only was the bottleneck dead, but the colonel had to reorder his priorities. He had to deal with the gas.
Barone was on the opposite side of the semicircular table, protected by the table and by the hostages. He had already removed his ski mask and had pulled three gas masks from the duffel bag. The terrorist slipped one of the masks on as he handed the others out. The other men didn’t put them on yet because the goggles impaired their peripheral vision. Then Barone returned to the bag and removed a black canister.
August turned and ran toward the north side of the chamber. The French terrorist had reached the stairs on the south side of the Security Council and was running up. August didn’t want to stop and shoot it out with him. Even if the Frenchman tagged him, August would be in a better position to kill Barone if he were on the same side of the chamber.
The table and the tightly huddled hostages were still in August’s way.
“No one move!” August shouted. Running, they might get between him and Barone.
No one moved at all.
August reached the stairwell and started down. He kept his right arm across his chest. Cocked at his side, the arm would be more vulnerable. The Frenchman was directly across the room. The terrorist suddenly stopped and fired several rounds. Two of the four shots hit August in the waist and ribs. The impact threw him against the wall, though the bulletproof vest stopped the slugs.
“You’re down, you bastard!” the Frenchman cried triumphantly. “Downer, cover me!” he yelled as he cut through one of the middle rows of the gallery, heading toward the north side.
The Australian threw the girl aside and stood. He screamed in raw, frustrated rage.
Pulling himself off the wall, August continued crawling down the steps. He ignored the sharp pain in his side. Where he was, behind the seats, the Frenchman did not have a shot at him. And Barone was almost in view.
Just then, a loud crack broke from the back of the room. From the corner of his eye, August saw the Frenchman fall forward between the rows. Downer ducked fast as Lieutenant Mailman crouched behind his gun in the open door.
“Keep going, sir!” Mailman shouted.
August reached the bottom step as Barone carefully peeled a red plastic strip from the mouth of the canister. He threw the tape aside and began unscrewing the cap. August fired twice. Both bullets punched holes in the side of Barone’s head, spilling him toward the front of the chamber. The canister fell to the carpet, a thin wisp of green vapor slipping around the neck of the container.
August swore. He got to his feet and ran toward the door that adjoined the Trusteeship Council. He had it in mind to get to the canister and shut it. If he couldn’t do that, then maybe he could cover the hostages as they ran out through that door.
