The low General Assembly Building, which was situated just to the north of the Secretariat, was more adventurous in design. It was an oddly curvate rectangle, swooping down in the middle and flaring to either end. An incongruous dome—another concession to the senator—was placed on the center of its roof, looking like an oversize turbine vent. Now that the General Assembly Building was vacant, he paced through it several times, his eyes sweeping every surface as if for the first time. The south wall was pure glass, creating a light and airy delegates’ lounge, overlooked by sweeping white balconies in three tiers. In the center of the building, the Assembly Hall was a vast semicircular atrium, green leather seats arranged around the central dais, which was a vast altar of green marble atop black. Looming over it, mounted on a vast gilded wall, was the circular U.N. logo—the two wheatlike garlands beneath a stylized view of the globe. For some reason, the globe logo, with its circles and perpendicular lines, struck him as a view centered upon the crosshairs of a scope: target earth.

“Some people wanna fill the world with silly love songs,” the Russian crooned tunelessly.

“Grigori?” Janson said into his cell phone. Of course it was Grigori. Janson glanced around the vast atrium, taking in the two huge mounted video screens on either side of the rostrum. “You doing OK?”

“Never better!” Grigori Berman said stoutly. “Back in own home. Private nurse named Ingrid! Second day, I keep dropping thermometer on floor just to watch her bend over. The haunches on this filly—Venus in white Keds! Ingrid, I say, how about you play nurse? ‘Meester Berman,’ she squeals, very shocked, ‘I am nurse.’”

“Listen, Grigori, I’ve got a request to make. If you’re not up to it, though, just let me know.” Janson spoke for a few minutes, providing a handful of necessary details; either Berman would work out the rest or he wouldn’t.

Berman was silent for a few moments when Janson finished talking. “Now it is Grigori Berman who is shocked. What you propose, sir, is unethical, immoral, illegal—is devious violation of standards and practices of international banking.” A beat. “I love it.”

“Thought so,” said Janson. “And you can pull it off?”

“I get by with a little help from my friends,” Berman crooned.

“You sure you’re up to doing this?”

“You ask Ingrid what Grigori Berman can do,” he answered, spluttering with indignation. “What Grigori up to doing? What Grigori not up to doing?”