For the second time in as many days Jean Jacques Assele-Ndaki had been shocked and horrified by the photograph of his lifelong friend Macie’s gruesome murder. But having the president himself confront him with it this time added a new and entirely different element to his reaction.

He’d been prepared to see neither as he arrived at Senateur Moubouyi’s colonial mansion and was ushered into the salon by his houseman.

Assele-Ndaki stood in the doorway now, looking into the room with frozen features. President Cangele. Here. How was this possible? It was everything he could do not to physically jump when the paneled oak door shut behind him.

“Assemblyman, hello.” The president sat at the head of a long table, two of his closest aides to his right, the rest of the chairs filled with more than twelve of Assele-Ndaki’s legislative colleagues. “We’ve been waiting for you with unanimous anticipation. And unanimity among politicians is too rare and short-lived to neglect for any period.”

Assele-Ndaki did not move. He felt staggered and weak kneed, as if struck by a hard concussion.

“Mr. President . . .”

“Please, come in,” Adrian Cangele nodded toward a single empty chair on his left side. The snapshot of Macie lay in front of him, its lower border pressed flat against the table by the thick fingers of his hand. “Now that you’ve arrived, there is no reason for you to stand apart. Is there?”

Recognizing the clear edge of sarcasm and double-entendre in the president’s remarks, Assele-Ndaki struggled to gain possession of himself. He had expected a huddle of government officials gathered to challenge the power and authority of the very man who was at the table with them and to determine how the UpLink license might be suspended or revoked. Expected representatives of both parliamentary chambers linked by their participation in a conspiracy, and a common warning—which had come to each of them in the form of an anonymously mailed photograph.

Instead . . .

Assele-Ndaki surveyed the room. Only Cangele and his aides were looking at him. All the rest of the men were focused everywhere but in his direction . . . some of them on the two-hundred-year-old rapiers and poniards against one wall, some on the cased set of eighteenth-century French pistols mounted opposite the sword collection, some examining the Chinese porcelain vases and expensive trinkets that filled various cabinet shelves. Others were merely staring at their hands or at vacant points in the air.

Assele-Ndaki turned his attention onto the senator whose invitation he had accepted. Seated at the president’s left with his eyes on the table, Moubouyi appeared to sense his gaze. He met it with his own for the briefest of moments, then looked back down.

Cangele’s deep-set eyes, meanwhile, continued to scrutinize Assele-Ndaki from his broad ebony face. The smile on his full mouth was quick, and often charming, but also unspontaneous and rarely invested with humor. It had a demanding severity even at the most casual and relaxed moments . . . and the mood in the room was worlds from either.