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By Root 355 0

Mott rode the elevator down to the second floor. Selected reporters had been allowed into this section of the building, and she answered a few questions as she walked toward the Security Council chamber. "We hope the matter can be resolved peaceably our priority is the security and preservation of human life we pray for the families of the hostages and victims to be strong was Secretaries-general had said those exact words or words like those so many times, in so many places around the world, they had almost become a mantra. Yet they were very different here. This wasn't a situation where people hadbeen fighting and hating and dying for years. The war was new, and the enemy was very determined. The words came from her soul, not from memory. Nor were they the only words that had come to mind. After leaving the reporters, she and the colonel walked past the sprawling Golden Rule, a large mosaic based on the painting by Norman Rockwell. It was a gift of the United States on the fortieth anniversary of the United Nations. "As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. was Chatterjee prayed that that would be possible here. Representatives of Security Council nations were gathered to the north of the chambers of the Economic and Social Council. Between them and the adjoining

Trusteeship Council chamber were twenty-seven guards, the entire force that Colonel Mott had under his command. There was also a team of emergency medical technicians from the NYU Medical Center, which was located ten blocks south of the United Nations, The technicians were all volunteers.

Secretary-General Chatterjee and Colonel Mott neared the Security Council chamber double doors. They stepped a few yards away. The colonel removed the radio from the loop in his belt. It was preset to the correct frequency. He switched the unit on and handed it to the secretary-general. Chatterjce's hand was cold as she took it.,She looked at her watch. It was ten-thirty. She'd gone over the words in her head as she walked here, made them as concise as she could. This is Secretary-General Chatterjee. Would it be all right if I came in?

If the terrorists admitted her, if the deadline passed without a death, then there would be room for talk. For negotiation. Perhaps she could convince them to keep her there in exchange for the children. Chatterjee wasn't even thinking beyond that, to her own fate. For a negotiator, the goal was everything, the means secondary. Truth, deceit, risk, compassion, coldheartedness, resolve, seductiveness; everything was coin of the realm. Chatterjee's slender fingers held the radio tightly as she raised the mouthpiece toward her lips. She had to make sure she sounded strong but nonjudgmental. She swallowed to make sure the words didn't catch. Her voice had to be clear. She moistened her lips. "This is Secretary-General Mala Chatterjee," she said slowly. She'd decided to add her first name to deformalize the introduction. "Would it be all right if I came in?" There was nothing but silence on the radio. The terrorists had said they'd be listening to this channel; they had to have heard. Chatterjee could swear she heard Colonel Mott's heart throbbing in his chest. She could certainly hear her own, like sandpaper up around her ears.

A moment later, there was a loud crack from behind the double doors of the Security Council chamber. It was followed by screams from deep within the chamber. An instant after that, the nearest of the two doors opened outward. The Swede fell out, except for the back of his head.

That was on the wall inside the chamber.

New York, New York Saturday, 10:30 P.m.

Paul Hood had composed himself and returned to the cafeteria. He reached it just as representatives from department of State security police arrived. Since the parents were all U.s. citizens, the American ambassador had requested that they be moved at once to DOS offices on the other side of First Avenue. The reason given was security, but Hood suspected that sovereignty was the real issue. The United States did not want American citizens