Ty had lost her handgun when she fell and was reaching for it when a second shot caught her in the upper arm and a third struck her in the belly. She reached for her abdomen, stopping suddenly when a fourth shot cracked through the top of her skull.
It took slightly more than a second for the Cambodians to fall and die. But their presence had confused the UN police, who weren’t sure whether to fire at them or not. The delay enabled the terrorists on the north side of the chamber to turn, aim, and fire straight down the stairs, at the door. One security officer went down, shot through the leg, and had to be pulled out. The other three who had entered squatted and returned fire to cover the withdrawal. Noticing the wounded girl, one of the men grabbed her under the arms and dragged her back.
One of the terrorists on the southern side of the chamber went down. He rolled down several steps before his head struck one of the chairs. One of the UN officers was shot in the face and simply fell over. The room was an echo chamber of thundercrack shots and screams as the terrorists battled the UN police and the hostages cried out. Many of those who were screaming were trying to duck and at the same time attempting to keep other panicked hostages from running madly into the line of fire.
The firefight ended when the UN forces withdrew and the door to the Trusteeship Council chamber crashed shut. The gunshots stopped but not the screaming. Nor the sense of madness that, for a few deadly seconds, seemed to infect everyone in the chamber.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Reynold Downer lay Georgiev’s bloody body down while Etienne Vandal knelt over him.
“You better go back to the door,” Vandal said. “They may try to come in again.”
“I will,” Downer said. He pulled his bloodred gloves from under Georgiev and looked across the room. The smaller of the two terrorists was running down the stairs. That meant Sazanka had taken the hit. Downer watched as Barone bent over him. The Uruguyan stood and dragged a finger across his throat. Their pilot was dead.
Downer swore. So did Vandal. Downer looked down.
Vandal had removed Georgiev’s mask. Only it wasn’t Georgiev who was lying on the landing.
“Then they’ve got him,” Downer said. “I thought I heard noise out there. The bastards have got him.” He spit on the American-looking face that lay lifeless on the carpet.
Vandal pulled back the man’s glove and felt for a pulse. He dropped the man’s wrist. “He’s dead.” Vandal looked down at the bodies lying near the gallery. “Those were UN security police who came in, and I’ll bet this man was with them. But who were those other two?”
“Probably undercover police,” Downer said. “Working security for the party.”
“Then why didn’t they move sooner?” Vandal wondered aloud. “Try and save the delegates?”
“Maybe they sent some kind of silent signal for reinforcements,” Downer said. “They were just waiting.”
“I don’t think so,” Vandal said. “They almost seemed surprised when they saw the United Nations team come in.”
Downer went back up the stairs, and Vandal turned and hurried down the steps. He was worried about the doors, though he didn’t really think there would be another attack now. The UN forces had gotten hurt. They took away the wounded girl, but he didn’t think that was their objective. They came in looking like they wanted to establish a beachhead. Four in with reinforcements waiting to move through the center. Why didn’t the reinforcements pull the girl out?
The firefight had put the hostages low on the floor or sent them ducking under the table. Vandal would leave them where they were for now. There was a lot of sobbing and whimpering, but everyone had been rattled by the attack. No one was going anywhere.
Vandal reached the two people who had been killed at the foot of the gallery. They were Asian. He squatted and checked the pockets of the man’s jacket. He had a Cambodian passport. There was a connection, at least. Georgiev was into a number of unsavory businesses during the UNTAC operation, from spying to prostitution. Maybe this was supposed to be some kind of payback. But how did they know he was here?
Barone had come over. Vandal dropped the passport and rose.
“Is he dead?” Barone asked, nodding toward Georgiev.
“It isn’t him,” Vandal said.
“What?”
“They got him when he went out,” Vandal said. “Made a switch.”
“Who would have thought they had the cajones?” Barone said. “That could be why the security team came in. They were following their man’s lead.”
“Very possibly,” Vandal said.
Barone shook his head. “If he gives them information about the bank accounts, then even if we get out of here with the money, they’ll take it right back.”
“Agreed,” Vandal said.
“So what do we do?” Barone asked.
“We still have what they want,” Vandal said, thinking aloud. “And we still have the means to kill the hostages if the security forces come in again. So I suggest we stick to our plan with two differences.”
“What?” Barone asked.
Vandal turned toward the conference table. “We tell them we want cash,” he said as he walked forward, “and we speed up the clock.”
His eyes moved from the empty seat where the girl who ran had been sitting. They settled on Harleigh Hood. There was something about her, something defiant, that hit him wrong.
He told Barone to get her.
THIRTY-NINE
The audio bug in the corridor picked up the shots from the Security Council chamber. The reports were muffled, as were the shouts in the corridor, but it was clear to Paul Hood and the others that one side or the other had made a move. The shouts continued after the gunfire had stopped.
Hood was standing behind Ani. Except for swinging over to a laptop on another desk — to try and boost the audio quality, she said — the young agent had stayed at her post. She was calm and very focused.
August was standing to Hood’s left. Rodgers had removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and had pulled a chair from the other desk. He had asked for, and was given, a book of blueprints of the United Nations. Hood had a look at the book over Rodgers’s shoulder. The FBI had obviously assembled the blueprints in order to plant primitive eavesdropping devices in structural materials back in the 1940s. Updated notations on the pages suggested that the CIA also used the blueprints to program routes for their mobile bugs.
On the floor near where Rodgers had pulled his chair was an upright canvas case. The zippered bag was open on top, and Hood could see a TAC-SAT phone inside.
As Hood stood there listening, he heard his cell phone beep. He assumed it was Bob Herbert or Ann Farris with information. Hood slipped the phone from his pocket. Mike Rodgers rose and came over.
“Hello?” Hood said.
“Paul, it’s me.”
“Sharon,” Hood said. Christ, not now, he thought.
Rodgers stopped. Hood turned his back to the room.
“I’m sorry, hon,” Hood said quietly. “I was on my way up to see you when something happened. Something that had to do with Mike.”
“He’s here?”
“Yes,” Hood said. He wasn’t really listening to the phone. He was trying to hear what was happening in the Secretariat Building. “Are you holding up okay?” he asked.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “Paul, I need you.”
“I know,” he said. “Look, we’re in the middle of something here. We’re trying to get Harleigh and the others out. Can I call you back?”