Klaus’s fist came down hard on the table, startling Barbara. “Paper doesn’t solve anything,” he muttered. “Signatures and empty words. That’s all they are.”

Everyone stared at him. Klaus slumped back in his seat, shaking his head but saying nothing more. He waved a hand toward Barbara, who took a deep breath, glancing past Klaus to the window to where the East River glistened in sunlight with the tourist boats plowing its brown water, as if nothing at all was happening out in the world. “On yet another front, I’ve talked to the various embassies in East Timor, and with President Ramos-Horta. They all seem to feel that things are calmer there today, and the Secretary-General agrees with me that for right now, sending one of our teams in would be premature. Talas is where our attention needs to be for the moment.”

“Then what about sending in an advance team to scout things out and report back directly to the Secretary-General, Lohengrin, and you?” Doktor Omweer asked, his words touched with a strong Dutch accent.

“Are you volunteering, Doktor?” Barbara asked, and the man’s eyes widened.

“I? If that is your wish, I certainly would do so. After all, there was a reason I was chosen to control the power of lightning. No one else could—”

“Yes,” Barbara interrupted before the man could go on—as they all knew he would. She heard a quiet snort of laughter from Ink, who openly referred to the ace as “Herr Doktor Earworm” for his tendency to ramble on and on about himself. “At this point no decisions have been made, but an advance team is something that the Secretary-General and I have already kicked around.” Klaus glanced sharply at her with that. “If we decide to go that way, I’ll certainly remember your offer. But right now … Let’s look at the information we do have, sketchy as it may be.”

Barbara nodded to Ink. The window shades closed, hiding the view of the East River, the room lights dimmed, and grainy and dark videos began to play on the screens around the room. Dozens of people—men, women, children—ran screaming across a wide boulevard from what looked like a cloud of roiling darkness that pursued them; those who fell in the rush were simply trampled. In the light of a streetlamp in the middle of a square, a crowd appeared to have set upon itself, with people striking each other chaotically. A joker, wearing only the remnants of torn and bloodied clothing, ran clumsily toward the camera, her left side visibly larger and more muscular than her right; in her left arm, she brandished what looked to be someone’s lower leg. She stopped a few feet from the lens and took a bite from the leg’s calf, glaring at the camera in freeze-frame.

“We’ll start with this,” Barbara began.

I have to be dreaming, Marcus told himself, pleaded with himself. Please just be a dream. That’s all. The longest, most fucked-up nightmare the world has ever known. Please, let me wake up.