“They’ve stopped listening,” Mott informed her.
“Excuse me?” Chatterjee said.
The colonel pointed to the small red indicator light on top of the oblong unit. It was off.
Chatterjee lowered her arm slowly. The colonel was wrong. The terrorists never started listening. “How long until we have pictures from inside the chamber?” she asked.
“I’ll send someone downstairs to find out,” Mott said. “We’re maintaining radio silence in case they’re listening.”
“I understand,” Chatterjee said. She returned his radio to him.
Colonel Mott sent one of his security officers downstairs, then ordered two others to clean up the delegate’s blood. If they had to move in, he didn’t want anyone slipping on it.
As Mott spoke with his troops, several of the representatives tried to come forward. Mott ordered his guards to keep them back. He said that he didn’t want anyone blocking the path to the Security Council chambers. If any of the hostages managed to get out, he wanted to be able to protect them.
While Mott kept the crowd orderly, Chatterjee turned her back on the group. She walked toward the picture window that overlooked the front courtyard. It was usually so active out there, even at night, with the fountain and the traffic, people jogging or walking their dogs, lights in the windows of the buildings across the street. Even helicopter traffic was being routed away from midtown — not just in case there was an explosion on the ground but in the event that the terrorists had accomplices. She imagined that barge and pleasure boat traffic was also being stopped along the East River.
The entire enclave was paralyzed. So was she.
Chatterjee took a tremulous breath. She told herself there was nothing they could have done to prevent the delegate’s murder. They couldn’t have put together the ransom, even if the nations had agreed to try. They couldn’t have attacked the Security Council chamber without causing more death. They couldn’t negotiate, though they tried.
And then suddenly it struck her: what she’d done wrong. One thing — one small but significant thing.
Walking over to the representatives, Chatterjee informed them that she was returning to the conference room to notify the delegate’s family of the assassination. Then, she said, she was coming back.
“To do what?” demanded the delegate from the Republic of Fiji.
“To do what I should have done the first time,” she replied, and then headed toward the elevator.
TWENTY-ONE
Reynold Downer went over to Georgiev after killing the Swedish delegate. Except for a few of the children who were crying and the Italian delegate who was praying, everyone in the room was silent and still. The other masked members of the group remained where they were.
Downer stood close enough so that Georgiev could feel the warmth of his breath through the mask. There were tiny spots of blood on the fibers.
“We need to talk,” Downer said.
“About what?” Georgiev whispered angrily.
“About throwing more logs on the fire,” Downer snarled.
“Go back to your post,” Georgiev insisted.
“Listen to me. When I opened the door, I saw about twenty or twenty-five armed and shielded security guards in the corridor.”
“Eunuchs,” Georgiev said. “They won’t risk an assault. We’ve talked about this. It will cost them everything.”
“I know.” Downer’s eyes shifted to a secure phone sitting in a duffel bag on the floor. “But your intelligence source said that only France agreed to pay. We don’t have the damned secretary-general as a hostage, the way we planned.”
“That was unfortunate,” Georgiev said, “but not catastrophic. We’ll manage without an advocate.”
“I don’t see how,” Downer said.
“By outwaiting them,” Georgiev said. “When the United States starts to worry that the children are at risk, they will pay whatever the other nations do not. They’ll charge it to their UN debt, find some face-saving way to give it to us. Now, go back and do what you’re supposed to do.”
“I don’t agree with this,” Downer insisted. “I think we need to turn up the heat.”
“There’s no need,” Georgiev said. “We have time, food, and water—”
“That isn’t what I mean!” Downer interrupted.
Georgiev fired him a look. The Australian was getting loud. This was exactly what he expected from Downer. A ritualistic, confrontational nay-saying, as predictable and extreme as a Japanese Kabuki. But it was going on a little too long and getting a little too loud. He was prepared to shoot Downer, to shoot any of his people if he had to. He hoped Downer could see that in his eyes.
Downer took a breath. He was calmer when he spoke. The message had been received.
“What I’m saying,” Downer went on, “is these bastards don’t seem to be getting the message that we want the money, that we’re not going to talk. Chatterjaw tried to negotiate.”
“We expected that, too,” Georgiev said. “And we closed her down.”
“For now,” Downer grumbled. “She’ll try again. Talk is all these bloody idiots ever do.”
“And it never succeeds,” Georgiev said. “We have contingencies for everything,” the Bulgarian reminded him quietly. “They will comply.”
The Australian was still holding the gun he’d used to kill the Swedish delegate. He shook it as he spoke. “I still think we ought to find out what they’re planning and push the bastards,” Downer said. “I say that after we put down the Italian delegate, we start serving up the kiddies. Maybe torture them first, let a few screams drift through the corridors. Like those Khmer Rouge guerrillas in Cambodia who caught the family dog and cut it up slowly to draw out the family. Put pressure on them to hurry things along.”
“We knew that it would take several bullets to get their attention,” Georgiev whispered back. “We knew that even if there is a willingness to sacrifice delegates, the United States won’t allow the children to die. Not through an attack and not through inactivity. Now, for the last time, return to your post. We will follow our plan.”
Downer left with a huff and an oath, and Georgiev turned his attention back to the hostages. The Bulgarian had also expected this. Reynold Downer was not a patient man. But resolve could be tested and teamwork strengthened by conflict and tension.
Except in the United Nations, Georgiev thought ironically. And the reason for that was simple. The United Nations promoted peace instead of gain. Peace instead of testing oneself. Peace instead of life.
Georgiev would fight it until he succumbed to the peace there was no avoiding, the peace that eventually came to every man.
TWENTY-TWO
The large C-130 was parked and idling on the airstrip outside the Marine Air Terminal at La Guardia Airport. Originally called the Overseas Terminal when it opened in 1939, the Marine Air Terminal was the airport’s main terminal building at the time. Constructed adjacent to blustery Jamaica Bay, the terminal was designed to accomodate passengers of “flying boats,” the preferred mode of international air travel in the 1930s and 1940s.
Today, the Art Deco Marine Air Terminal is dwarfed by the Central Terminal Building and the buildings operated by individual airlines. In its heyday, however, the Marine Air Terminal had witnessed history. Though black, the so-called “silver tarmac” had welcomed politicians and world leaders, movie stars and celebrated artists, renowned inventors and world-famous explorers. Typically, the flashing bulbs of the press had been on hand to welcome them to New York. Limousines had been waiting to take them to the city.