The guard’s mouth sprang open, and a circle of red formed about his left eyebrow. Blood spewed out in a pulsing rush that rolled over the unblinking eye. And all the while, the man stood, upright, as if transmuted into a statue. Slowly, as if in some danse macabre, the man’s legs started to twitch, then give way, and he toppled onto the ancient Chinese carpet. Janson rushed over and retrieved the man’s gun, a Glock pistol.

“Minister Kubelik,” the red-haired receptionist cried out. “We’ve all been ordered to the rear annex. I can’t explain what’s happening but …” She trailed off, stunned and perplexed at the sight of a high government minister in a controlled firing roll.

The roll got him across the hallway and near the front door while remaining within two feet of the ground. It was faster than a crawl, and speed was now of the essence. “Toss me my hat.”

“What?”

“Toss me the goddamn hat,” Janson yelled. More quietly: “You’ll find it’s about a meter from your left hand. Throw it to me.”

The terrified receptionist did so, as one obeys a dangerous madman, and fled to the rear annex.

The small square in the double-hung window that was cleaner than the rest of it: a sniper would be there.

He had to use the thick wooden door as a movable shield. He jumped up, turned the knob, and opened it a crack.

Two thuds: bullets that dug into the thick wood. Bullets that would have struck him had he continued out the door.

The door was now ajar, just eighteen inches, but it should suffice for a well-targeted shot. That grimeless, sparkling square of glass—with luck, he could hit it from here, even with a mere handgun.

His enemies would be scoped; he would not be. But scopes had their limitations, too. The greater the magnification, the more restricted the field of vision. And it took perhaps ten or twenty seconds to reposition the scope and adjust its optics when the target position changed abruptly.

He crawled to where the security guard lay slain on a pale blue carpet now darkening with his blood, and dragged the body toward the foyer, knowing that he would be shielded by the four-foot wall of brick beneath the window. He pulled out a handkerchief and hurriedly wiped the blood from the man’s face. He draped his suit jacket on the man’s upper body and jammed his felt-brimmed hat on the corpse’s head. Firmly grasping the hair on the nape, he positioned the head precisely. In a darting gesture, he pushed the head toward the gap left by the cracked-open door, and swiveled it, emulating the movements of a man cautiously craning to see.

The head would be glimpsed fleetingly, in profile, and from a distance.