9:38 A.M.
LOBBY
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Mike Murphy was on his stomach, tucked behind a large display case designed for tourists, in the lobby of the UN building. The front of the structure showed a pictorial history of the UN. Behind the case was empty space, out of sight. That’s where Murphy was hidden.
He was hiding for his life.
When the first Hezbollah gunmen encroached upon the tower, Murphy had, in point of fact, been looking at the display case. After Dellenbaugh arrived and went up to the office of the UN Secretary General, Murphy decided to hang back and kill time. He was looking forward to watching Dellenbaugh give his speech, watching him excoriate the UN for being utterly worthless. He’d been looking at the photos when everything went haywire, and he’d ducked behind the display case. Now, that display case was the only reason he was alive.
Murphy watched in absolute shock, consternation, and horror as a gun battle took place to his right, across the lobby. He’d watched as men were shot and killed. In front of him bodies of both sides were scattered.
The lobby itself was a mess. There was broken glass all over the place. He peeked around the end of the display and saw carnage. Several large windows were shattered. Bodies were strewn across the lobby, corpses. But now a group of terrorists patrolled the lobby.
Murphy tucked back in and stayed motionless. He’d been that way since the gunfight between Secret Service and whoever was out there moved inside the tower. He pulled a phone out of his pocket. He looked again, and counted three gunmen, then saw a fourth … and then another. He didn’t actually know how many there were, but they were now in control.
Murphy scrolled through his contacts, then hit a button. After a few seconds, it rang.
“Yes?” said Amy Dellenbaugh. She answered immediately and her voice was emotional. She had a heightened, concerned demeanor in her voice.
“Amy, its Mike,” Murphy whispered as—in the background—he heard voices.
“Where are you?” said Amy.
Murphy heard a voice nearby; one of the gunmen was just on the other side of the display case.
“Hold on,” said Murphy in a whisper.
Murphy listened as the young Hezbollah spoke Persian in a quiet tone. He wished he could understand. He heard shooting at the far side of the lobby and peeked around the display case, watching one of them run.
“I’m at the UN. I need your help,” said Murphy, in a hushed voice.
“Oh my God.”
“Please can you get Adrian King to call me?” breathed Murphy. “Or anyone.”
“Yes,” said Amy. “Yes, right now, of course I will.”