The Call Was Brief. When It Was Finished, Mohalley Rejoined The Group At The Head. As They Filed Past, He Asked Hood If He Could Talk To Him For A Moment.
“Of Course,” Hood Said. He Felt His Mouth Grow Very Dry. “Was That A Hostage?” He Asked.
“The Gunshot?” “Yes, Sir,” Mohalley Said.
“One Of The Diplomats.” Hood Felt Sick And Relieved At The Same Time. His Wife Had Stopped A Few Steps Away. He Motioned For Her To Go Ahead, That Everything Was Okay. At The Moment, Okay Was A Very Relative Term.
“Mr. Hood,” Mohalley Said, “We Did A Quick Background Check On All The Parents, And Your Op-Center Record Came Up-Was “I’ve Resigned,” Hood Said.
“We Know,” Mohalley Told Him. “But Your Resignation Doesn’t Become Effective For Another Twelve Days. In The Meantime,” He Went On, “We Have A Potentially Serious Problem That You’ll Be Able To Help Us With.” Hood Looked At Him. “What Kind Of Problem?” “I’m Not At Liberty To Say,” Mohalley Told Him. Hood Hadn’t Really Expected Mohalley To Tell Him. Not Here. The State Department Was Paranoid About Security Outside Its Own Offices, Though Here They Had A Right To Be. Every Diplomat, Every Consulate Was Here To Help Their Country. That Included Being “On The Line,” Using Everything From Eavesdropping To Electronics To Listen In On Conversations. “I Understand,” Hood Said.
“But It’s Related To This?” He Pressed. “Yes, Sir. Will You Follow Me?” Mohalley Said. It Was Less A Question Than A Statement.
Hood Glanced Toward The Courtyard. “What About My Wife” “We’ll Tell Her We Needed Your Help,” Mohalley Informed Him. “She’ll Understand. Please, Sir, This Is Important.” Hood Looked Into The Man’s Steel-Gray Eyes.
Part Of Hood-The Part That Felt Guilty About Sharon-Wanted To Tell Mohalley To Go To Hell.
Lowell Coffey Had Once Said, “The Needs Of A State Come Before The Needs Of Estate.” Hood Had Gotten Out Of Government For That Reason. A Delegate Had Just Been Shot, And Their Daughter Was Being Held By His Killers-Killers Who Had Vowed To Murder Another Person Every Hour. Hood Should Be With His Wife. Yet There Was Also A Part Of Him That Didn’t Want To Sit Around And Wait For Others To Act. If There Was Something Hood Could Do To Help Harleigh, Or If He Could Collect Intel For Rodgers And Striker, He Wanted To Be In There Doing It. He Hoped Sharon Would Understand.
“All Right,” Hood Said To The Security Head. The Men Turned And Walked Briskly Toward The Courtyard. They Headed Toward First Avenue, Which Was Blocked By Police Cars From Forty-Second To Forty-Seventh Streets. Beyond Them Was A Wall Of Glare, The Lights From Tv Cameras. Parked Along The Avenue Were Three Nypd Emergency Service Unit Radio Emergency Patrol Trucks With Fat Squads-Fugitive Apprehension Teams Just In Case The Terrorists Were Americans. The Bomb Squad From The Seventeenth Precinct Was Also There.
Complete With Their Own Van. Overhead Was A Pair Of Nypd Aviation Unit Blue And White Bell-412 Helicopters, Their Powerful Spotlights Shining On The Compound. Cleaning Personnel And Diplomatic Aides Were Still Being Evacuated From The Un And From The Towers Across The Avenue.
In The Glow Of The White Lights, Hood Could See His Ghostly White Wife Being Led Across The Street With The Other Parents. She Was Looking Back, Trying To Catch A Glimpse Of Him. He Waved, But They Were Immediately Blocked By The Rep Trucks On The Un Side Of The Street And The Wall Of Police On The Other. Hood Followed Mohalley South Toward Forty-Second Street, Where A Black State Department Sedan Was Waiting. Mohalley And Hood Slipped Into The Backseat. Five Minutes Later, They Were Headed Through The Renovated Queens-Midtown Tunnel, Out Of Manhattan. Hood Listened As Mohalley Spoke. And What He Heard Made Him Feel As Though He’d Been Sucker Punched, Pushed Into Taking A Big Step In The Wrong Direction.
Twenty New York, New York Saturday, 10:31 P Dism.
When The Gun Sounded Inside The Security Council Chamber, Colonel Mott Immediately Moved In Front Of The Secretary-General. If There Had Been Additional Gunfire, He Would Have Pushed Her Back To Where His Security Personnel Were Standing. The Officers Had Grabbed Blast Shields, Which Were Stacked Off To The Side, And Were Standing Behind Them.
But There Was No More Shooting. There Was Only The Acrid Smell Of Cordite, The Cottony Deafness Caused By The Gunshot, And The Unthinkable Coldness Of The Execution.
Secretary-General Chatterjee Stared Ahead.
The Mantra Had Failed. A Man Had Died, And So Had Hope.
She Had Seen Death Recreated In Her Father’s Films. She Had Seen The Aftermath Of Genocide In Videos Produced By Human Rights Organizations.
Neither Of Those Came Close To Capturing The Dehumanizing Reality Of Murder. She Looked At The Body Lying Chest- Down On The File Floor. The Eyes And Mouth Were Both Open Wide, And The Dead Face Was Like Clay, Flat On Its Cheek And Turned Toward Her.
Beneath It, Blood Was Spreading Evenly In All Directions. The Man’s Arms Were Twisted Under His Body, And His Feet Were Turned In Opposite Directions.
Where Was The Shadow Of The Atman Her Faith Talked About, The Eternal Soul Of Hinduism? Where Was The Dignity We Supposedly Carried With Us Into The Cycle Of Eternity? “Get Him Out Of Here,” Colonel Mott Said After What Was Probably Just A Second Or Two But Seemed Infinitely Longer. “Are You All Right?” He Asked The Secretary-General.
She Nodded.
The Emergency Medical Technicians Came Forward With A Stretcher. They Rolled The Delegate’s Body On Top Of It. One Of The Medics Placed A Thick Swatch Of Gauze Against The Gaping Head Wound. This Was More For Propriety Than To Help The Delegate, Who Was Beyond Help.
Behind The Guards, The Representatives Were Still And Silent. Chatterjee Looked At Them And They Looked At Her. Everyone Was Ashen. Diplomats Dealt With Horror Every Day, But They Rarely Got To Experience It.
It Was A Long Moment Before Chatterjee Remembered The Radio In Her Hand. She Quickly Composed Herself And Spoke Into The Mouthpiece. “Why Was That Necessary?” After A Short Silence, Someone Answered. “This Is Sergio Continh” Contini Was The Italian Delegate. His Normally Powerful Voice Was Weak And Breathy.
Colonel Mott Turned Toward Chatterjee.
His Jaw Was Tight, And There Was Anger In His Dark Eyes.
He Obviously Knew What Was Corning. “Go Ahead, Signore Contini,” Chatterjee Said. Unlike Mott, She Was Holding On To Hope.
“I Have Been Asked To Tell You That I Will Be The Next Victim,” He Said. The Words Came Slowly, Unsteadily. “I Will Be Shot Exactly One–” He Stopped And Cleared His Throat “Exactly One Hour From Now. There Will Be No Further Communication.” “Please Tell Your Captors That I Wish To Come Inside,” Chatterjee Said. “Tell Them I Want To-Was “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,” Chatterjce 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. Matt 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 1 Should Have Done The First Time,” She Replied, And Then Headed Toward The Elevator.