Several months before, an arms dealer named Ustinoviks, who provided the Khmer Rouge with weapons, had been asked to talk to Georgiev about a buy. An informant with the Khmer Rouge knew that Ty and Sary Hang were looking for him. The informant sold them the name of the arms dealer. Though they had missed the Bulgarian when he came to New York to talk to Ustinoviks the first time, they managed to get to Ustinoviks after Georgiev had gone. The offer they made the Russian was simple: Let them know when he was coming to pick up his weapons or they would turn Ustinoviks over to the American FBI.
The Russian had let them know when Georgiev was scheduled to pick up his purchase with the provision that they didn’t take him at that time. They agreed. As it happened, they didn’t want him then. They wanted him doing whatever it was he’d come here for, when the rest of the world could see, when they could draw attention to their own people, put an end to the countless murders in which they’d taken part as they tried to stop the Khmer Rouge and undermine the pathetically weak government of Norodom Sihanouk.
They’d watched Georgiev’s team make their buy from the roof of the club next door to the shop owned by Ustinoviks. Ty couldn’t really see him clearly then. Not as clearly as she had when she’d been at the UN camp, working as a cook, watching for Khmer Rouge infiltrators and seeing the degrading things for which Georgiev was responsible. But the government couldn’t do anything without proof of what was going on, and anyone who tried to get that proof — or who tried to get away, like poor Phum had — died.
After Georgiev and his people made their arms purchase, Ty and Hang followed them back to their hotel. The adjoining rooms had been booked, so they took the room beneath theirs. They ran a wire through the ceiling fixture to the floor of his room, attached a sound amplifier, and listened as Georgiev and his allies reviewed their plans.
Then they’d gone to the Permanent Mission of the Kingdom of Cambodia across the street and waited.
Ty Sokha turned her large, dark eyes from the stricken young girl lying beside her. The one who was barely older than Phum had been when she’d been murdered by one of Georgiev’s thugs. Ty looked over at Sary Hang, who was sitting on the floor, inside the circular table. The Cambodian operative had shifted his position slightly so that he could see Ty without seeming to watch her.
She nodded. He nodded back.
When Georgiev came back down the stairs, it would be time.
THIRTY-THREE
Georgiev stopped when he reached the double doors at the back of the Security Council chamber. He was holding his automatic, though he didn’t think he would need it. Reynold Downer was standing to the right of the doors. He had a weapon in either hand.
“Are you going to let her in?” Downer whispered.
“No,” Georgiev said. “I’m going out there.”
Georgiev could see that Downer was surprised, even through his mask. “In God’s name why?”
“They need a lesson in futility,” Georgiev explained.
“Futility? They’ll take you hostage!” Downer said.
The secretary-general spoke again. She asked to be admitted.
“They wouldn’t take the chance,” Georgiev told Downer. “This will convince them they have no choice but to cooperate, and quickly.”
“You’re sounding like a bloody diplomat now. What about them recognizing your accent?”
“I’ll speak softly and deeply,” Georgiev said. “They’ll probably assume I’m Russian.” Now that he thought of it, he would enjoy it if this entire takeover were blamed on Moscow or the Russian Mafia.
“I don’t agree with this,” Downer said. “I bloody don’t.”
You wouldn’t, Georgiev thought. Downer only knew how to bully, not how to finesse.
“I’ll be all right,” Georgiev said. Slowly, he reached for the knob on the left-side door. He turned and pushed the door open a crack.
Mala Chatterjee was standing there, her arms straight at her sides, her shoulders and head back. Behind her several paces was her head of security. Beyond him, Georgiev could see a few of the security guards with their blast shields.
Chatterjee’s face was calm but resolute; the officer looked as though he wanted to snort fire. Georgiev liked that in an adversary. It kept one from becoming complacent.
“I’d like to speak with you,” Chatterjee said.
“Tell everyone to step back, past the council chambers,” Georgiev said. He didn’t feel it was necessary to add that if anything happened to him, the hostages would suffer.
Chatterjee turned and nodded to Colonel Mott. Mott motioned for the rest of the security team to step away. They did. Mott remained where he was.
“Everyone,” Georgiev said.
“It’s all right, Colonel,” Chatterjee said without turning.
“Madam Secretary—”
“Go, please,” she said firmly.
Mott exhaled through his nose, then turned and joined his security team. He stood nearly thirty feet away, glaring at Georgiev.
That was good, Georgiev thought. She had just emasculated her chief of security. The colonel now looked like he wanted to draw his gun and put a bullet in Georgiev.
Chatterjee continued to stare at the Bulgarian.
“Now, you step back,” Georgiev said.
She seemed surprised. “You want me to step back?”
He nodded. She took three steps back, then stopped. Georgiev opened the door farther. Shields rose slightly as arms tensed behind them. He could see a ripple of anxiety roll across the security team. He hoped the secretary-general could see, could feel how impossible her position was. Talkers and poor, untested schoolboys were all she had in her corner.
Georgiev holstered his weapon and stepped through the open door. Facing the security team, he shut the door behind him. Slowly, fearlessly. He was tempted to scratch his head or his side and watch them jump. But he didn’t. Just knowing they would was enough. And more importantly, they knew it, too. They knew who had more courage and who was more at ease. Coming out here was the right thing to do. He looked at Chatterjee.
“What do you want?” he asked her.
“I want to resolve this situation without further bloodshed,” she told him.
“You can,” he replied. “Give us what we asked.”
“I’m trying,” she said. “But the nations have refused to pay.”
He had expected that. “Then someone else must pay,” he told her. “Let the United States rescue the world again.”
“I can talk to them,” she said, “but it will take time.”
“You can have it,” he said. “The price is one life every hour.”
“No, please,” Chatterjee said. “I would like to suggest something. A moratorium. I’ll have a better chance of getting what you ask if I can tell them you’re cooperating.”
“Cooperating?” he said. “You’re the one who’s wasting time.”
“But it will take hours, maybe days,” she said.
Georgiev shrugged a shoulder. “Then the blood is on your hands, not on mine.”
The secretary-general continued to look at him, though she was less composed than before. Her breathing was faster, her eyes more restless. That was good. He wanted compliance, not a negotiation. Behind her, Georgiev noticed the security chief shifting uneasily. He must not have come from the UN command ranks. He had the bearing of a tethered bull.