Hood stood by the side of the king-size bed and looked down at his son. The boy’s life had changed, his sister’s needs would be different, and he didn’t even know it. The innocence of sleep.
Hood turned and went into the bathroom. He filled the sink and washed his face. His life had changed, too. He’d killed a man. And whether the man deserved to die or not, Hood had killed him on international territory. There would probably be a trial, and it might not be in the United States. The process could take years, and it might very well compromise the security of Op-Center.
How did they know certain things? To what extent were the CIA and the State Department involved? What was the connection between the U.S. government and the missing Bulgarian Georgiev? The government agencies had no authority in any of these areas.
The irony was that the United Nations might come out of this looking like the wounded party, the victim of a United States conspiracy. From withholding dues to bugging the secretary-general, we’d broken many of the rules that States Members of the United Nations promised to uphold. Nations that sponsored terrorism, trafficked in narcotics, and crushed human rights would be able to wag their fingers indignantly at the United States.
And we would take it. We would take it because the media would be watching. Hood had always felt that television and the United Nations were made for each other. In their eyes, everyone was the same size.
Hood toweled off and looked at himself in the mirror. Sadly, he didn’t think the most difficult fight would be with his enemies. That would come when he and Sharon tried to talk. Not just about his behavior tonight but about a future that suddenly looked very different from what they’d been planning.
“Enough,” he said quietly.
Hood dropped the towel on the counter and took a drink of tap water. He walked slowly back to the bedroom. The night was starting to catch up with him. His legs were weak from all the running, and he’d strained his lower back when he’d run crouching into the Security Council chamber. He eased himself down beside Alexander. He kissed the boy lightly behind the ear. He hadn’t done that in years and was surprised. He could still smell the remnants of little boyhood there.
The peace of the child gave comfort to the man. And as he slipped into sleep, Hood’s last thought was how strange it all was. He had helped to make these two children. Yet by their needs and by their love, the reverse was also true.
These children had created a father.
FIFTY-SIX
A call from Bill Mohalley startled Hood awake at seven A.M.
The State Department official was calling to inform Hood that his wife, daughter, and the other families were being brought to La Guardia Airport for a flight to Washington. Mohalley said that his wife had been notified at the hospital and that the NYPD would arrive at the hotel in an hour to escort him and his son to the airport.
“Why the quick evac?” Hood asked. He was sore and groggy, and the bright, white sunshine was like an acid bath in his skull.
“It’s mostly for you,” Mohalley said, “though we don’t want it to seem like we’re hustling you out.”
“I don’t follow,” Hood said. “And why is the NYPD handling this instead of the State Department?”
“Because the police are used to protecting news makers,” he said. “And like it or not, you just became one.”
Hood’s cell phone beeped. It was Ann Farris. Hood thanked Mohalley and got out of bed. He walked toward the door where he wouldn’t wake Alexander and it was mercifully much darker.
“Good morning,” Hood said.
“Good morning,” Ann said. “How are you?”
“Surprisingly well,” he said.
“I hope I didn’t wake you—”
“No,” Hood said, “the State Department did.”
“Anything important?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “They want me up and out of here.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “You’re pretty exposed right now.”
“And obviously out of the loop,” he said. “What the hell’s been happening, Ann?”
“It’s what we press professionals call a shitstorm,” she said. “Since no one has the names of what they’re calling the two ‘SWAT men’ who went in before you, this whole thing has become the Paul Hood Show.”
“Courtesy of Mala Chatterjee,” Hood said.
“She’s not very happy with you,” Ann said. “She says you risked your daughter’s life needlessly for a speedy and criminal resolution to the crisis.”
“Up hers,” Hood replied.
“Can I quote you on that?” Ann quipped.
“Banner headline,” Hood replied. “What’s the fallout so far?”
“Security-wise, Bob Herbert’s on top of that,” she said. “You’re the only face on a team that helped kill terrorists from three different countries. Bob’s just starting to sift through the possible links they had with other terrorist groups or the sicko nationalists who may want to avenge them.”
“Yeah, well, forgive me for not having worried about that,” Hood said bitterly.
“This isn’t a question of blame or forgiveness,” the press liaison said. “It’s about special interests. It’s what I’ve been telling all of you for years. Spin control isn’t a luxury anymore. The way every system in the world is interconnected, it’s a necessity.”
That symbiosis was true, Hood had to admit. And it was sometimes true in unexpected ways. Fifteen years before, intelligence collected by Bob Herbert’s CIA team was routinely made available to other American intelligence groups, including Naval intelligence. When Naval analyst Jonathan Pollard turned over U.S. intelligence secrets to the Israelis in the 1980s, several of those secrets were subsequently given to Moscow in exchange for the release of Jewish refugees. Hard-line Communists in Moscow used that intelligence to plot against the Russian government. Years later, when Op-Center became embroiled in thwarting the coup attempt, Herbert’s own data was used against him.
“How
“On the national op-ed pages it’s playing very well,” Ann said. “For the first time in history, the liberal and conservative press are united. They’re portraying you as a ‘hero-dad.’ ”
“And on the international op-ed pages?” he asked.
“You could run for Prime Minister in Great Britain and Israel and probably win,” she said. “Other than that, the news isn’t good. The secretary-general described you as ‘just another impatient American with a gun.’ She’s demanding an investigation and house arrest. The rest of the world press I’ve seen so far has picked up that mantra.”
“Bottom line?” Hood asked.
“Just what you said,” she told him. “You’re being evacuated. No one in the State Department or the White House has decided how to play any of this yet. I guess they want you here to help figure it out. Though I will tell you that Bob has taken the precaution of contacting the Chevy Chase police and ordering up some security for your home. They’re there now. Just in case.”
Hood thanked her, then woke Alexander to get him ready. Hood had always been very open with his kids, and as they dressed, he told the boy exactly what had happened the night before. Alexander was dubious until the NYPD showed up to escort Hood and his son from the hotel. The six officers treated Hood as one of their own, commending him as they led the two through the basement to the garage and a waiting motorcade of three squad cars. The rock-star exit impressed Alexander more than anything he’d experienced in New York.
The Hoods and the other families flew back to Washington, D.C., on an Air Force 737. Sharon had been very quiet during the hour flight. She sat with Harleigh beside her, the young girl’s head on her shoulder. Hood had sat across the aisle, watching. Like most of the young musicians, Harleigh had been given a mild sedative to help her
