State of Siege - Tom Clancy [56]
"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