member of the Mansur security detail would have to take a quick trip to the
bathroom. He pushed out the latch-lever door that led out of the hall, and made
his way toward the chapel.
The Caliph walked very fast, his sandals echoing on the terrazzo, until he
caught the attention of a square-jawed, crew-cut American Secret Service agent.
This was even better than an ordinary U.N. security officer: his weaponry would
be of particularly high quality.
“Sir,” he said to the dark-suited agent. “I protect the leader of the Islamic
Republic of Mansur.”
The Secret Service agent looked away; foreign heads of state did not fall within
his bailiwick.
“We have received a report that someone is hiding—in there!” He gestured toward
the chapel.
“I can ask someone to check it out,” the American said impassively. “Can’t leave
my post.”
“It’s just over there. I myself think there’s nobody there at all.”
“We had the whole place turned over a few hours before. Be inclined to agree
with you.”
“But you’ll take a look? Thirty seconds of your time? Doubtless there’s nothing
to the report, but if we are mistaken on this score, we shall both be
hard-pressed to explain why we did nothing.”
A grudging sigh. “Show the way.”
The Caliph held open the small wooden door to the chapel and waited until the
Secret Service man walked through.
The chapel was a long narrow space, with a low ceiling and recessed lighting to
either side; a spotlight illuminated a black lacquered box toward the end of the
hall. It was topped with a glowing slab of glass—some Western designer’s notion
of secular religiosity. On the wall opposite the door was a mural with
crescents, circles, squares, triangles, all overlapping, evidently signifying
some amalgam of creeds. So very Western, the conceit that one could have it all,
like the trimmings on a Big Mac: needless to say, the spurious harmony was
predicated upon the unquestioned dominion of Western permissiveness. At the
other end, near the entrance, was a series of small benches with rush seats. The
floor was of irregular rectangles of slate.
“Ain’t no place to hide here,” the man said. “There’s nothing.”
The heavy, soundproofed door closed behind them, cutting off the noises of the
lobby.
“What would it matter?” the Caliph said. “You have no weapon. You’d be helpless
against an assassin!”
The Secret Service man grinned and opened his navy jacket, putting his hands on
his waist, allowing the long-barreled revolver to show from his shoulder
holster.
“Apologies,” the Caliph said. He turned around, his back to the American,
seemingly captivated by the mural. Then he took a step back.
“You’re wasting my time,” the American said.
Abruptly, the Caliph whipped his head back, cracking into the American’s chin.
As the burly agent reeled, the Caliph’s hands snaked toward his shoulder holster
and pulled out the .357 Magnum revolver, a Ruger SP101 equipped with a four-inch
barrel for enhanced accuracy. He slammed the butt down on the agent’s head,
ensuring that smug infidel would be unconscious for many hours.
Now he secreted the Ruger inside his small valise of tooled leather and dragged
the muscle-bound American behind the ebonized light box, where he would be
invisible to a casual visitor.
It was time to reenter the Assembly Hall. Time to avenge indignities. Time to
make history.
He would prove himself worthy of the title that his followers had bestowed upon
him. He was the Caliph indeed.
And he would not fail.
In the executive suite, the light on the black slimline phone started to glow:
it was the speaker’s “ready in five” notification—standard procedure, alerting
him a few minutes before he would be asked to step out in front of the assembled
leadership of the planet.
Novak reached for the phone, listened, said, “Thank you.”
And as he watched, Janson felt a jolt of foreboding.
Something was wrong.
Urgently, desperately, he jammed on the rewind button and replayed the last ten
seconds of video feed.
The light glowing on the glowing phone. Peter Novak reaching for it, bringing it
to his ear …
Something was wrong.
But what? Janson’s unconscious mind was like a tocsin, wildly tolling its alarm,
but he was tired, so very tired, and the fog of exhaustion closed in.
He replayed the last ten seconds once again.
The glowing light of a purring internal phone.
Peter Novak, protected by a battery of security guards but, for the moment,
alone in the executive suite, reaching for the handset, for the instructions to
prepare himself for his moment in the world’s spotlight.
Reaching with his right hand.
Peter Novak holding the handset to his ear.
His right ear.
Janson felt as if his very skin had been coated with a layer of ice. A terrible,
painful clarity now commanded his mind as it filled with a cascade of images. It
was maddening, faces and voices intermingling. Demarest at a desk in Khe Sanh,
reaching for a phone. These H&I reports are worse than useless! Holding the
phone tight against his ear for a long while. Finally, speaking again: A lot of
things can happen in a free-fire zone. Demarest in the swampy terrain near Ham
Luong reaching for the radiophone, listening intently, barking a series of
commands. Reaching with his left hand, holding the phone to his left ear.
Alan Demarest was left-handed. Invariably so. Exclusively so.
The man in the executive suite was not Alan Demarest.
Christ almighty! Janson felt the blood rush to his head, his temples throbbing.
He had sent a double. An impostor. Janson had been the one to warn the others
about the danger of underestimating their opponent. Yet he had done just that.
And the stratagem made perfect sense. If your enemy has a good idea, steal it,
Demarest had told him in the killing fields of Vietnam. The Mobius programmers
were now Demarest’s enemies. He gained his freedom by destroying his own
duplicates, but then he had been planning his takeover for years. During that
time he had not only been accumulating assets and allies: he had created a
duplicate of his own—one who was under his power.
Why hadn’t Janson thought of it?
The impostor who sat in the executive suite was not Peter Novak; he was working
for him. Yes, this was precisely what Demarest would have done. He would have …
reversed the angle. See the two white swans instead of the one black one. See
the slice of pie instead of the pie with the slice missing. Flip the Necker cube
outward instead of inward. Master the gestalt.
The man who was on his way to address the General Assembly was the Judas goat,
leading them to their slaughter. He was the cat’s paw, drawing out their fire.
In just a few minutes, the man, this copy of a copy, this doubly ersatz Novak,
would take his position before the green-marble podium.
And he would be shot dead.
That would not be Novak’s undoing. It would be their own undoing. Alan Demarest
would have confirmed his most paranoid suspicions: he would have flushed out his
enemies, would have discovered that the whole invitation had indeed been a plot.
At the same time, they would have destroyed their last direct link to Alan
Demarest. Nell Pearson was dead. Marta Lang, as she’d called herself, was dead.
Every human vessel that might lead to him had been severed—except the man in the
executive suite. A man who must have given half a year of his life to recuperate
from reconstructive surgery. A man who—willingly or unwillingly—had sacrificed
his own identity to the brilliant maniac who held the future of the world in his
hands. If he were killed, Janson would have lost his last remaining lead.
And if he mounted the podium, he would be killed.
The scheme they had set in motion could not be stopped. It was not in their
control: that was its great recommendation—and, possibly, its lethal flaw.
Frantically, Janson flipped to the camera angle on the Mansur delegation. There
was the aisle seat that had been occupied by the Caliph.
Empty.
Where was he?
Janson had to find him: it was their only chance to prevent catastrophe.
Now he activated his filament microphone and spoke, knowing his words would be
relayed to the secretary-general’s earpiece.
“You have got to postpone Novak’s appearance. I need ten minutes.”
The secretary-general was seated at the high marble bench behind the dais,
smiling and nodding. “That’s impossible,” he whispered, without altering his
public expression.
“Do it!” Janson said. “You’re the secretary-general, goddammit! You figure it
out.”
Then he raced down the carpeted stairs and toward the hallway that bounded the
Assembly Hall. He had to find the fanatic from Anura. This assassination would
not save the world; it would doom it.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Janson’s rubber-soled feet raced down the white-tiled hallway. The Caliph had
disappeared from the Assembly Hall—which meant, presumably, that he was