away from reporters for a few days, let Op-Center’s press rep handle this. At least until the secretary-general has had a chance to talk to her people in New York.”
“Of course,” Hood said.
Hood shook the hands of the president and the ambassador. Then he shook the hand of the secretary- general. It was the first time she looked at him since the night before. Her eyes were dark and tired, her mouth was downturned, and there was gray in her hair he hadn’t noticed before. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. She hadn’t won this battle either.
A security area sat between the end of the main corridor and the west-wing entrance. Lowell Coffey and Bob Herbert were there, chatting with a pair of secret service agents. They had not been invited to the meeting but wanted to be nearby in case Hood needed moral or tactical support or even a lift, depending on where he had to go after the meeting.
They approached Hood as the president, secretary-general, and ambassador went out to meet reporters.
“That was quick,” Herbert said.
“What happened?” Coffey asked.
“I don’t know,” Hood said. “Ambassador Meriwether and I were not in the meeting.”
“Did the president say anything to you?” Coffey asked.
Hood smiled weakly. He put a hand on the attorney’s shoulder. “He told me to go home to my daughter, which is exactly what I intend to do.”
The three of them left the White House. They avoided reporters by heading toward West Executive Avenue and then making their way south toward the Ellipse, where they’d parked.
As they left, Hood couldn’t help but feel bad for Chatterjee. She wasn’t a bad person. She wasn’t even the wrong person for this job. The problem was the institution itself. Nations invaded other nations or committed genocide. Then the United Nations gave them a forum to explain their acts. Just allowing them to be heard had the effect of legitimizing the immoral.
It occurred to Hood then that there might be a way for Op-Center to help rectify those abuses. A way he could use the team’s resources to identify international criminals and bring them to justice. Not to trial — to justice. Before they struck, if possible.
It was something to think about. For though he owed his daughter a father, a family, he owed her something else as well. Something very few people could hope to deliver.
A saner world in which she could raise her own family.
SIXTY
He had been to many places in the world. The Arctic. The tropics. Each had their individual charms and beauty. But he had never been anywhere as instantly appealing as this place.
He walked out of the terminal and sucked down the breezy-warm air. The late afternoon sky was clear blue, and he swore he could taste the ocean in it.
He tucked his passport in his sports jacket and looked around. The courtesy buses were stopping along the curb, and he selected one that was going to a brand-name hotel. He didn’t have a reservation. But when he went to the desk, he would tell the receptionist he did. He had forgotten the confirmation number; it was
He sat down in the tram and turned around to look out the window. The spidery off-white control tower flashed by. There was rich greenery by the side of the road. The traffic moved swiftly, not like it did in New York and Paris.
Ivan Georgiev was going to like it here.
He would have liked South America, too. But things hadn’t gone as planned. Sometimes they didn’t. Which was why, unlike the others, he had an escape route. If everything went wrong, Annabelle Hampton was supposed to send her floaters to collect him. The plan was for him to meet her later, at the hotel, and arrange for her to be paid either from the ransom or from his own funds.
When she didn’t show, he assumed the worst. Later, when the floaters returned to put him on a plane and get him out of the country, he learned that she’d been taken. She would probably plea-bargain her way to fifteen years in prison by telling authorities about the CIA/ UNTAC link, they said. Which was why he had to leave. The CIA planned to deny everything.
Georgiev was supposed to fly on from Los Angeles to New Zealand. But the Bulgarian didn’t want to go to New Zealand. He didn’t want the CIA to know where he was. Besides, he had money and he had ideas. He also had connections with Eastern European expatriates, especially the Romanians, who had set up film companies in Hollywood.
Georgiev smiled. His associates had told him that the film industry was a ruthless, sexy business. A business where a foreign accent was considered exotic and cultured and was a guaranteed invitation to parties. A business where people didn’t stab you in the back in private. They stabbed you in the front, in public, where others could see.
Georgiev smiled. He had the accent and he would be happy to stab people wherever they chose.
He was going to like it here.
He was going to like it very, very much.
