“One guy came in after they’d all gone to lunch. That’s him over there. His name is Cesar Antonio Clerc. Code name is Aero.”

Michelle looked over and saw a man somewhat older than her who was sitting in one of the low-slung black leather chairs. He was reading on a tablet.

“Thanks, Margaret,” she said.

Michelle walked across the wide waiting room toward him. He looked up at her and his eyes widened.

“Hello, Cesar,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Michelle Pond.”

He stood, took her hand, and gave a firm handshake. Not too hard, which was nice. A lot of men gave her the I’m-manly-and-my-handshake-is-super-strong. Those never hurt her—they couldn’t—but it did make her wonder if they did that all the time to people it might hurt.

“I know who you are, Miss Pond,” he said, releasing her hand. He spoke with a slight Spanish accent. His eyes were jade-colored, and his skin was olive; he was a few inches shorter than she was. “You’ve been in the news a couple of times,” he said dryly.

Michelle decided she liked him. “It looks like you missed the orientation meeting,” she said. “I’m late, too. How about we go get some lunch and I can answer any questions you have about Committee procedures. And about how much trouble you’ve gotten yourself into by agreeing to this.”

“Trouble,” he said in an amused voice. “Trouble I’m used to.”

Machu Picchu now formed a glorious, cinematic backdrop for the press cameras. A large, open-sided tent had been erected on the terrace just outside the Three Windows Temple, protecting the gathering from the sun while leaving the stunning mountainous scenery visible all around. The terraces gleamed in the late morning sun, the polished drystone walls of the buildings around reflected the light, though many of the walls still showed the damage of the fighting that had erupted here two weeks ago, when the UN had first made the decision to send in the Committee to end the burgeoning civil war.

The two Peruvian sides were already seated under the tent. As Barbara and Klaus approached, they could see Secretary-General Jayewardene waiting for them, and behind him, conspicuously present, the other Committee aces were standing in a cluster. Blue-helmeted soldiers stood posted around the perimeter of the terrace.

“This will play well in the press.” Klaus leaned in toward Barbara, whispering in her ear as he put an arm around her. She saw him nod in satisfaction. “Das gut.”

She smiled back at him. “Yes,” she told him. “It’s good.” She patted his hand, then moved it from her shoulder. She ran fingers through her short, dyed hair. “Appearances, love,” she whispered back to him. “And it’s time for yours. I’m already working, you know. And I’m tired—not enough sleep last night.”

Klaus grinned at that, and Babel forced herself to remain smiling, but most of her attention was on making certain that everyone sitting at the table under the tent would be able to converse with the others; her concentration was there. The ghosts of German, English, Spanish, Sinhala, Quechua, and Aymara words wisped through her head, and she formed them all into a common language that everyone at the table could understand. It was like juggling: hearing the words in each person’s head a moment before they were spoken and reshaping them as they emerged, twisting the sounds that they made in the air and placing a sphere of understanding around everyone in the tent. The task was second nature to her now, but it was still something that required concentration and energy, and which would leave her exhausted afterward.