Mathieu Zinsou turned to the high commissioner for refugees, a former Irish politician who combined a vigorous style with a fair amount of loquacity; she was currently feuding with the under secretary-general for humanitarian affairs, who had been conducting turf battles with unyielding and unhumanitarian fervor. “Madame MacCabe, I’m terribly sorry, but this is a call I must take. I think I’ve understood your concerns about the strictures coming from the Department of Political Affairs, and I believe that we can address them if we all reason together. Ask Helga to arrange a meeting among the principals.” He rose and bowed his head in a courtly gesture of dismissal.

Then he picked up the phone. “Please hold for Mr. Novak,” a woman’s voice said. A few clicks and electronic burps, and Peter Novak’s voice came on: “Mon cher Mathieu,” he began.

“Mon cher Peter,” Zinsou replied. “Your munificence in even considering what we discussed must be honored. Not since the Rockefellers donated the land on which the U.N. complex sits has a private individual offered to—”

“Yes, yes,” Novak interrupted. “I’m afraid, though, that I’m going to decline your invitation to dinner.”

“Oh?”

“I have something more ceremonial in mind. I hope you’ll agree with my thinking. We have no secrets, have we? Transparency has always been a paramount U.N. value, no?”

“Well, up to a point, Peter.”

“I shall tell you what I propose, and you tell me if you think I’m being unreasonable.”

“Please.”

“I understand that there will be a meeting of the General Assembly this Friday. It has always been my fantasy to address that august body. Foolish vanity?”

“Of course not,” Zinsou said quickly. “To be sure, few private citizens have ever addressed it … .”

“But nobody would begrudge me the right and privilege—I think I can say that without fear of contradiction.”

“Bien sûr.”

“Given that a great many heads of state will be present, the level of security will be high. Call me paranoid, but I find that reassuring. If the U.S. president is present, as seems possible, there will be a Secret Service detail on the case as well. All very reassuring. And I shall probably be accompanied by the mayor of New York, who has always been so friendly toward me.”

“An extremely public and high-profile appearance, then,” Zinsou said. “That is not like you, I must say. Remote from your reclusive reputation.”

“Which is exactly why I suggest it,” the voice said. “You know my policy: always keep them guessing.”

“But our … dialogue?” Confusion and anxiety roiled within him; he struggled not to let it show.

“Not to worry. I think you’ll find that one never has more privacy than when one is in the public eye.”

“Goddamn it!” Janson yelled. He was reviewing the tape recording of Demarest’s last phone call.

“What could I have done differently?” Zinsou asked, and his voice held both fear and self-reproach.