Rodgers nodded. He looked over at Herbert. “I phoned Colonel August on the way over. He’s got Striker on yellow alert and is checking the DOD database for everything they’ve got on the United Nations complex.”
“The CIA did a pretty thorough job of mapping the place while it was going up,” Herbert said. “I’m sure there’ll be a lot on file.”
Well-dressed attorney Lowell Coffey III was seated to Rodgers’s left. “You understand, Mike, that the United States has absolutely no jurisdiction anywhere on the grounds of the United Nations,” he pointed out. “Not even the NYPD can go in there without being asked.”
“I understand,” Rodgers said.
“Do you care?” Liz Gordon asked.
Rodgers looked at the husky staff psychologist who was seated next to Coffey. “Only about Harleigh Hood and the other kids in the Security Council chamber,” he replied.
Liz looked like she wanted to say something. She didn’t. She didn’t have to. Rodgers could see the disapproval in her expression. When he came back from the Middle East, she’d talked to him about not taking out his anger and despair on other targets. He didn’t think he was. These people, whoever they were, had earned his anger on their own.
Rodgers turned to Herbert, who was sitting to his right. “Is there any intel on whoever did this?”
Herbert sat forward in his wheelchair. “Nothing,” said the balding intelligence chief. “The perps came in with a van. We got the license number off the TV and chased it down to the rental car agency. The guy it was rented to, Ilya Gaft, is a fake.”
“He had to show a driver’s license to the clerk,” Rodgers said.
Herbert nodded. “And it checked out with the Department of Motor Vehicles until we asked for his file. There wasn’t one. A counterfeit license is pretty easy to get.”
Rodgers nodded.
“There was triple security on board for this soiree,” Herbert said. “I had a look at the comparable figures from last year’s bash. The problem is, they were all concentrated pretty much at the three drive-through checkpoints and in the square north of the United Nations. These perps apparently blew their way through the concrete barrier using a rocket launcher, then drove across the countyard and right into the damned building. Shot everyone they came up against before holing up inside the Security Council.”
“And there’s been no word from them?” Rodgers asked.
“Not a whisper,” Herbert said. “I called Darrell over in Spain. He called someone at Interpol in Madrid who is close to people at UN security. They got in touch immediately. As soon as they hear anything about what’s inside the van or the kind of weapons these guys used, we’ll know.”
“What about the UN? Have they said anything about this publicly?” Rodgers asked Ann.
“Nothing,” she told him. “No spokesperson has come out.”
“No statement to the press?”
Ann shook her head. “The UN Information Service is not a rapid-response force.”
“The United Nations’s not a rapid-response anything,” Herbert said disgustedly. “The guy Darrell’s friend at Interpol called — he’s a personal aide to a Colonel Rick Mott, who’s the head of United Nations security. The aide said that they hadn’t even collected the spent shells from outside the Security Council chamber yet, let alone checked them for fingerprints or provenance. And that was about thirty-five minutes after this whole thing started. They were just getting themselves organized to look at tapes from the security cameras and then go into a meeting with the secretary-general.”
“They’re good at meetings,” Rodgers said. “What about other tapes?” he asked Ann. “The news services must’ve gone after every tourist on the street, trying to get video of the attack.”
“Good idea,” she said. “I’ll have Mary make some calls, though at that hour, there probably weren’t very many tourists out.”
Ann picked up the phone and asked her assistant to run a check of what the networks and cable news services might have collected.
“You know,” Coffey said, “I’m pretty sure the police have surveillance cameras on some streets in New York. I’ll call the city’s district attorney and find out.” The attorney reached inside his blue blazer and slipped out his digital pocket address book.
Rodgers was staring at the table. Both Ann and Coffey were on the phone. But not enough was happening. They needed to do more.
“Matt,” Rodgers said, “the attackers had to have accessed the DMV computer at some point to put the fake license in.”
“That’s a pretty easy hack,” Stoll said.
“Fine. But is there any way we can track the hack backward to whoever did it?” Rodgers asked.
“No,” said the portly Stoll. “A trace like that is something you have to set up. You wait until they strike and then follow the signal back. Even then, a good hacker can run the signal through terminals in other cities. Hell, he can bounce it off a couple of satellites if he wants. Besides, for all we know, these people had someone on the inside.”
“That’s true,” Herbert said.
Rodgers continued to stare. He needed a history, a pattern, anything they could use to start building a profile. And he needed it fast.
“They’ve held these parties every year for five years,” Herbert said. “Maybe someone cased the thing last year. We should probably have a look at the guest list, see if anyone—”
Just then Rodgers’s phone beeped. He grabbed it, wincing as he strained the bandages around his right side. “Rodgers here.”
“It’s Paul,” said the caller.
Rodgers motioned for everyone to be quiet, then punched the speaker button. “We’re here,” he said. “In the Tank.”
“What are you hearing?”
“Nothing,” Rodgers told him. “No statements, no demands. How are you doing?”
“The phone rang a minute ago,” Hood said. “They’re sending up an evac team. Before they do, I want to try and see what’s going on.”
Rodgers didn’t like the idea of Paul moving around unannounced. Skittish security forces just arriving on the scene could mistake him for a terrorist. But Paul knew that. Paul also knew that if Striker were going to do anything to help get Harleigh and the other kids out, they needed intel.
“I’m at the door,” he said. “I hear footsteps outside. Opening—”
There was a long silence. Rodgers looked at the faces of the other people in the room. Everyone was somber and staring down; Ann was flushed. She had to know everyone was thinking about how she was reacting to all this. Everyone but Rodgers. He was wishing that he were there with Hood, in the thick of this. How did the world turn upside down like this? The manager was in the field, and the soldier was at a desk.
“Hold on,” Hood said quietly. “Something’s happening.”
There was another silence, this one short.
“Mike, there’s someone coming out of the Security Council chamber,” Hood said. “Oh, Christ,” he said a moment later. “Christ.”
TWELVE
Reynold Downer stood in one of the two Security Council chamber doorways that opened into the corridor. The double oak doors were in the far northern corner of the long, back wall of the council. Outside and just beyond the doors, a second wall jutted into the corridor perpendicular to the Security Council wall. Downer had opened only the far side door. The Australian was still wearing his ski mask.
In front of Downer was a slender, middle-aged man in a black suit. He was Swedish delegate Leif Johanson. There was a single sheet of legal-sized paper in his trembling hands. Downer was holding a handful of the man’s blond hair and pulling backward slightly. His automatic was pressed to the base of the man’s skull. The Australian turned the man so that he was facing away from the corner formed by the two walls.