small plot of land here on the East River.”
“I appreciate that, mon cher. But my enemies are of a different order. The heads
of state you mention could, at least, assume that the secretary-general was not
himself conspiring against them. It hasn’t escaped me that the first person who
occupied your office and position was a man named Lie.”
Zinsou’s veins were chilled. After an excruciating moment of silence, he said
simply, “I’m sorry you think that.”
Peter Novak patted Zinsou’s shoulder and smiled ingratiatingly. “You mistake my
meaning. I don’t think it anymore. It’s just that I had to be sure.”
Beads of sweat had broken out on the secretary-general’s forehead. None of this
was anticipated. None of this was according to plan. “Can I get us some coffee?”
he said.
“No, thank you.”
“Well, I think I’ll have some,” Zinsou said, reaching over to the phone console
on his desk.
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Very well.” Zinsou maintained eye contact. “Tea, perhaps? Why don’t I just call
Helga and tell her to—”
“You know, I’d rather you not make any phone calls, either. No need to clear
your schedule or consult with anyone. You may think me paranoid, but we don’t
have much time. In just a few minutes, I shall be leaving from the rooftop
helipad: all arrangements have been made.”
“I see,” said Zinsou, who didn’t.
“So let’s get our business done,” said the elegant man with the glossy black
hair. “Here are instructions for getting in touch with me.” He handed the
secretary-general a white card. “It’s a number you can call to get a return
phone call within the hour. As our plans develop, we’ll need to be in regular
touch. Your Swiss bank account has, you’ll find, already been enhanced—simply an
advance on a package of benefits that we can finalize at a later point. And
there will be regular monthly payments, which will continue as long as our
partnership remains on a solid footing.”
Zinsou swallowed. “Very thoughtful.”
“Simply to put your mind at rest, because it will be very important that you’re
able to focus on what truly matters, and not make any errors of judgment.”
“I understand,”
“It’s important that you do. In your speeches as secretary-general, you’ve often
maintained that there’s a thin line between civilization’and savagery. Let’s not
put that proposition to the test.”
Janson kept a foot in the elevator door, triggering the electric eye and
preventing the elevator from moving. “Give me the envelope,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said; his Hungarian accent did
not slip. If the words were defiant, however, the tone was apprehensive.
Janson formed his right hand into a spear and delivered a crushing punch to the
man’s throat. As the man fell to the floor in a fit of helpless coughing, Janson
dragged him out of the elevator. The man swung at Janson, a sluggish, poorly
aimed uppercut. Janson dodged the punch and struck the Ruger against his temple
in a controlled blow. The Novak impostor crumpled to the floor, unconscious. A
quick frisk verified that there was no envelope on his person.
Now Janson crept toward Zinsou’s office, pausing just before the doorway. The
sounds came both from his earpiece and through the door.
A clear, tinny voice in his ear: “This is all a bit unexpected.” Zinsou was
speaking.
Janson turned the knob, threw open the door, and rushed in, the Ruger in his
right hand. Demarest’s reaction to the intrusion was immediate and deft: he
repositioned himself directly behind Zinsou. There was no line of fire that
would reach him and not strike the secretary-general.
All the same, Janson fired—wildly, it seemed: three shots high overhead, three
slugs smashing into the window, causing the whole pane to buckle and then
disintegrate into a curtain of fragments.
And there was silence.
“Alan Demarest,” Janson said. “Love what you’ve done with your hair.”
“A poor shot, Paul. You shame your teacher.” Demarest’s voice, at once rich and
astringent, resounded in the room as it had resounded in his memory for so many
years.
A cool gust of wind riffled a pad of yellow paper on the secretary-general’s
desk: it underscored the odd reality of being windowless on the thirty-eighth
floor, with nothing but a low aluminum grille between them and the plaza far
below. Sounds of traffic from the FDR Drive mingled with the cawing of gulls
that wheeled and soared at eye level. There were darkening clouds overhead; soon
it would rain.
Janson looked at Alan Demarest peering around Zinsou, who was obviously
struggling to maintain his composure and doing far better than most would.
Beneath the black pools of Demarest’s eyes, he saw the bore hole of a Smith &
Wesson .45.
“Let the secretary-general go,” Janson said.
“My policy with cat’s paws has always been to amputate,” Demarest replied.
“You have a gun, I have a gun. He doesn’t need to be here.”
“You disappoint me. I thought you’d prove a more formidable antagonist.”
“Zinsou! Walk. Now. Get out of here!” Janson’s instructions were crisp. The
secretary-general looked at him for a moment, then moved from between the two
blood enemies. To Demarest, Janson said, “Shoot him and I shoot you. I will take
the opportunity to shoot you. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, Paul, I do.” Demarest spoke simply.
Janson waited, Ruger in position, until he heard the door close.
Demarest’s eyes were hard but not devoid of mirth. “The football coach Woody
Hayes was once asked why his teams so seldom threw the forward pass. He replied,
‘If you put the ball up in the air, only three things can happen, and two of
them are bad.’ ”
Incongruously, Janson recalled Phan Nguyen’s obsession with American football.
“You sent me to hell,” he said. “I think it’s time I returned the favor.”
“Why so angry, Paul? Why so much hate in your heart?”
“You know.”
“Once things were otherwise. Once there was a connection—something we shared,
something deep. Deny it if you want. You know it’s true.”
“I don’t think I know what’s true, anymore. I owe you that.”
“You owe me many things. I shaped you, made you who you are. You haven’t
forgotten, have you? I never held back. You were my prize protégé. You were so
smart and so brave and so resourceful. You were a fast, fast learner. You were
made for great things. The way you turned out … ” He shook his head. “I could
have made you great, if you had allowed me to. I understood you the way nobody
else did. I understood what you were truly capable of. Maybe that’s what really
spooked you. Maybe that’s why you rejected me. Rejecting me was a way of
rejecting you, rejecting who you truly are.”
“Is that what you believe?” asked Janson, fascinated despite himself.
“We’re different from other people, both of us are. We know the truths that
others can’t deal with. The Scythian called it right. Laws are like
cobwebs—strong enough to catch the weak, but too weak to catch the strong.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“We’re strong. Stronger than the others. And together, we would have been so
much stronger still. I need you to acknowledge the truth about who you are.
That’s why I brought you in, had you come to Anura, lead that last mission for
me. Look around you, Paul. Think of the world you live in. Face it, you can’t
stand them any more than I can—the mediocrities, the complacent bureaucrats, the
shambling paper pushers who never miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity.
Mediocrities whom we have permitted to run the world. Do you honestly doubt your
own ability to run things better than they do, to make better decisions than
they do? You love your country? So did I, Paul. You had to be made to see what I
was made to see. Just think, Paul. You sacrificed most of your years on this
earth to serve a government that took about five seconds to decide to have you
killed. I had to show you that. I had to show you the true face of your
employers, of the government you almost gave your life for, time and again. I
had to show you that they wouldn’t hesitate to have you killed. And I did. Once,
you turned the American government against me. The only way you could see the
truth was for me to do the same to you.”
Janson was sickened by the man’s smooth prevarications but found himself at a
loss for words.
“You’re filled with hate. I understand. God forsook his own son in the Garden of
Gesthemane. I failed you as well. You were calling out for help, and I failed
you. So much of the time we all live out our individual existences, each of us
at the center of our own stories, and when you needed me, I wasn’t there for