State of Siege - Tom Clancy [88]
"But we don't have those things," Chatterjee told him. "Nor are we likely to."
"By the time the terrorists figure that out, they'll be outside the building," Hood said. "I'll have the NYPD ready to get them there." "We've already tried one very costly attack," Chatterjee said. "I won't authorize another."
Hood didn't want her to know that he knew that. "This will be different," Hood said. "If the terrorists are outside, they can't control all the hostages. We can get some of them away. And if they use poison gas, we'll be in a better position to help the victims. But you've got to call the terrorists now. You've also got to tell them that the offer is only good if they don't kill any more hostages."
Chatterjee hesitated. Hood couldn't understand what she was hesitating about. After the hit the security forces had just taken, there was only one answer: I'll do it. I'll help save a life and smoke the bastards out. Or did she still think she could open a dialogue, talk the terrorists into surrendering? If he had the time to finesse the situation, he would point out that Colonel Georgiev had apparently helped to turn the UNTAC operation into a sham. He would ask how she could still believe her own propaganda, that peacekeeping and negotiation were somehow the high road and force was the low road.
"Madam Secretary-General, please," Hood said. "We have less than a minute."
She continued to hesitate. Hood had never been as disgusted with despots as he was right now with this so-called humanitarian. What was there to fret over? Lying to terrorists? Having to explain to the Gabonese Republic why the United Nations charter was being sidestepped, why the surviving members of the General Assembly weren't consulted before the United States was permitted to terminate a hostage situation?
But this wasn't the time for a debate. Hopefully, Chatterjee would see that, too. And quickly.
"All right," the secretary-general replied. "I will place the call to save a life."
"Thank you," Hood replied. "I'll be in touch."
New York, New York Sunday, 12:00 A.M.
Harleigh Hood was on her knees, facing the closed doors of the Security Council chamber.
The Australian man was standing behind her, holding her hair tightly, painfully. The other man, the Spanish-sounding man, was behind him, looking at his watch. Harleigh's face was badly swollen above the right cheek where she'd been pistol-whipped when she'd tried to bite him. There was blood on her mouth where she'd been backfisted, hard. Her gown was torn at both shoulders, her neck rug-burned from being dragged up here, all the while kicking at the floor, walls, and chairs. And her left side hurt with every breath because she'd been jackbooted there just a few seconds before. Harleigh had not gone willingly to her execution. Now that the young woman was here, she was staring ahead blankly. She hurt everywhere, but nothing was as painful as the utter loss of her humanity, something she couldn't even touch. She realized, in a surprisingly lucid instant, that this was probably what it was like to be raped. Choice taken away. Dignity taken away. Future fear of any stimulus reminiscent of the experience, whether it was something pulling at your hair or the feeling of a rug under your knees. Perhaps worst of all, this wasn't about anything she had done or said or been. She was just a convenient target for some animal's hostility. Is that what death was supposed to be like? No angels and trumpets. She was just meat.
No.
Harleigh screamed a cry of rage that came from deep inside. She screamed again, and then her bruised muscles exploded and she tried to get to her feet. Death was that if you let it be that. The Australian tugged hard on her hair, twisting her around. Harleigh fell to the ground, onto her back. She fought to get up, wriggling from side to side. Her captor dropped his knee on her chest, hard, and remained there. He put the barrel of his gun in her mouth. "Scream into this,"