democracies, in turn, viewed such gaudy regalia as the generals sported with
scorn and disapproval: what miserable social backwardness enabled these
caudillos to grab power? Thin leaders looked at fat leaders and entertained
fleeting thoughts about their lack of self-control: no wonder their countries
had incurred staggering foreign debts. The stout leaders, for their part,
regarded their attenuated Western counterparts as colorless and chilly
Grad-grinds, sapless administrators rather than true leaders of men. Such were
the thoughts that flickered beyond each toothy smile.
Like molecules, the clusters mingled and collided, formed and reformed. Vacuous
pleasantries stood in for long-winded complaints. A rotund president of a
central African state embraced the lanky German foreign minister, and both knew
precisely what the embrace signified: Can we move forward with debt
restructuring? Why should I be stuck servicing loans taken by my
predecessor—after all, I had him shot! A gaudily bedizened potentate from
Central Asia greeted the prime minister of Great Britain with a dazzling smile
and the tacit protest: The border dispute we have with our belligerent neighbor
is not a matter of international concern. The president of a troubled NATO
member state that was the rump of a once great empire sought out his opposite
number from stable, prosperous Sweden and made small talk about his last visit
to Stockholm. The unspoken message: Our actions against the Kurdish villages
within our borders may disturb your pampered human-rights activists, but we have
no choice but to defend ourselves from forces of sedition. Behind every
handclasp, hug, and back clap was a grievance, for grievances were the cement of
the international community.
Circulating among the delegations was a man wearing a kaffiyeh, a full beard,
and sunglasses: typical attire among certain ruling-class Arabs. He looked, in
short, like any of a hundred diplomatic representatives from Jordan, Saudi
Arabia, Yemen, Mansur, Oman, or the United Emirates. The man looked
self-possessed and a little pleased: no doubt he was happy to be in New York,
looking forward to making a side trip to Harry Winston, or simply to sampling
the sexual bazaar of the great metropolis.
In fact, the ample beard did double duty: it not only helped alter Janson’s
appearance but served to disguise a small filament microphone, activated by a
switch in his front trouser pocket. He had, as a precaution, placed a microphone
on the secretary-general as well; it was mounted within a small nodule on his
gold collar bar, and was completely hidden behind his wide four-in-hand knot.
The long ramp led to a walkway immediately adjoining the General Assembly
Building, where seven entrances were set back into the marble exterior of the
curving, low-slung building. Janson kept moving among the incoming crowds,
always looking as if he had just seen an old friend across the way. Now he
consulted his watch; the fifty-eighth annual meeting of the General Assembly
would come to order in just five minutes. Was Alan Demarest going to arrive? Had
he ever intended to?
It was a barrage of camera flashes that first signaled the legend’s arrival. The
TV crews, which had dutifully recorded the arrival of the great and the good,
potentates and plenipotentiaries, now focused their video-cameras, boom mikes,
and key lights upon the elusive benefactor. He was difficult to pick out from
the tightly huddled group in which he walked. There, indeed, was New York’s
mayor, with a hand around the humanitarian’s shoulder, whispering something that
seemed to amuse the plutocrat. To the man’s other side, the senior senator of
New York State, who served also as the deputy chairman of the Senate’s Foreign
Relations Committee, kept in step. A small entourage of senior aides and civic
luminaries followed close behind. Secret Service agents were stationed at
strategic intervals, no doubt ensuring that the area was free of snipers and
other potential malefactors.
As the man known to the world as Peter Novak entered the West Lobby, he was
swiftly hustled by his entourage into the executive suite behind the Assembly
Hall. Outside it, the soles and heels of hundreds of expensive shoes clattered
against the terrazzo flooring as the lobby began to empty and the hall began to
fill.
This was Janson’s cue to retreat to the central security booth, located behind
the main balcony of the Assembly Hall. An array of small square monitors
surrounded a large monitor; they displayed multiple camera angles on the hall
itself. At his request, hidden cameras had also been placed in the suites tucked
away behind the dais. The secretary-general’s security consultant wanted to be
able to keep an eye on all the principals.
Adjusting the control panel, he shifted among camera angles, zooming in, looking
for the table where the delegation from the Islamic Republic of Mansur would be
seated. It did not take long.
There, seated at the aisle, was a handsome man in flowing robes that matched
those of the other men in the Mansur delegation. Janson pressed several buttons
on the console and the image appeared on the large central monitor, supplanting
the wide-angle overhead view of the assembly. Now he enlarged the image further,
digitally reduced the shadows, and watched, mesmerized, as the large flat-screen
monitor filled with the unmistakable visage.
Ahmad Tabari. The man they called the Caliph.
Rage coursed through Janson like electricity as he studied the planes of his
ebony face, his aquiline nose and strong, chiseled jaw. The Caliph was
charismatic even in repose.
Janson pressed several buttons, and the central screen feed switched to the
hidden camera in the executive suite.
A different face, a different kind of merciless charisma: the charisma of a man
who did not aspire, a man who had. The full head of hair, still more black than
gray, the high cheekbones, the elegant three-button suit: Peter Novak. Yes,
Peter Novak: it was who the man had become, and it was the way Janson had to
think of him. He sat at one end of a blond-wood table, near a telephone that was
directly connected to a intercommunication system at the high marble dais in the
Assembly Hall as well as to the technicians’ stations. A corner-mounted
closed-circuit television allowed the VIPs in the executive suite to keep
abreast of developments within the hall.
Now the door to the suite opened: two members of the Secret Service with curled
wires descending from their earpieces made a visual inspection of the room.
Janson pressed another button, switching camera angles.
Peter Novak stood up. Smiled at his visitor.
The president of the United States.
A man normally brimming with self-confidence was looking ashen. There was no
audio feed, but it was clear that the president was asking the Secret Service
detail to leave the two of them alone.
Wordlessly, the president withdrew a sealed envelope from his breast pocket and
handed it to Peter Novak. His hands trembled.
In profile, the two were a study in contrasts: one, the leader of the free
world, seeming defeated and slightly stooped; the other, broad-shouldered and
triumphant.
The president nodded and looked, for a moment, as if he wanted to say something,
then thought the better of it.
He walked out.
Camera angle no. two. Novak slipping the envelope into his own breast pocket.
That envelope, Janson knew, could change the course of world history.
And it was only the first installment.
The Caliph glanced at his watch. Timing would be everything. The metal detectors
made it impossible for even delegation members to carry in firearms; this was as
he expected. Yet securing such a weapon would be an elementary task. There were
hundreds of them in the building, the property of the United Nations security
guards and other such protectors. He had little respect for them or their skill:
the Caliph had faced down some of the deadliest warriors in the world. It had
been his personal valor that earned him the undying respect of his ragged and
uneducated followers. Mastery of ideology or Koran verses by itself could not
have sufficed. They were a people who needed to know that their leaders had
physical courage, intestinal as well as intellectual fortitude.
The aura of invincibility he had lost that dreadful night at the Steenpaleis he
would regain, redoubled, even, once he had completed this, his most daring act.
He would do the deed, and in the ensuing uproar, he would be able to make his
escape in the speedboat docked at the East River, just a hundred feet east of
the building. The world would learn that their righteous cause could not be
ignored.
Yes, getting his hands on a high-powered gun would be almost as easy as taking
it off a warehouse shelf. Prudence, however, had required that he wait until the
last moment to acquire it. The more time that elapsed afterward, the greater the
chance of exposure. Securing the weapon, after all, meant deactivating its
possessor.
According to the schedule of events that had been shared with Mansur’s U.N.
ambassador, Peter Novak would commence his address within five minutes. This