The Caliph reread the cable he had just received, and felt a pleasurable glow of anticipation. It was as if overcast skies had parted to reveal a pure and luminous ray of sunlight. Peter Novak was going to be addressing the annual meeting of the U.N. General Assembly. The man—and he was, ultimately, no more than a man—would show his face at last. He would be greeted by insipid gratitude, by laurels and acclamation. And, if the Caliph had his way, by something more.

Now he turned to the Mansur minister of security—plainly little more than a jumped-up carpet merchant, despite the rhetorical inflation of his title—and spoke to him in tones both courteous and commanding. “This meeting of the international community will be an important moment for the Islamic Republic of Mansur,” he said.

“But of course,” replied the minister, a small, homely man who wore a simple white head wrap. On matters that did not concern Koranic orthodoxy, the leadership of this spavined, desolate little country was easily impressed.

“Your delegation will be judged, rightly or wrongly, by its professionalism, comportment, and discipline. Nothing must go awry, even in the face of unknown and unexpected malefactors. The very highest level of security must be maintained.”

The Mansur minister bobbed his head; he knew he was out of his depth and, to his credit, realized there was no point in pretending otherwise, at least in the presence of the master tactician who stood before him.

“Therefore, I shall myself accompany the delegation. You need only provide the diplomatic cover, and I shall personally ensure that everything happens as it should.”

“Allah be praised,” the small man said. “We could hope for nothing more. Your dedication will be an inspiration to the others.”

The Caliph nodded slowly, acknowledging the tribute. “What I do,” he said, “is merely what must be done.”

The narrow town house was elegant and yet anonymous-looking, a brownstone like hundreds of others in New York’s Turtle Bay neighborhood. The stoop was a gray-brown, with raised black grip stripes in diagonals across the steps. They would prevent slippage when the stairs became slick with rain or ice; the electronic sensors beneath the strips would also detect the presence of a visitor. The sun bounced off the thick, leaded glass of the parlor: it was purely ornamental in appearance, but proof against even heavycaliber bullets. Sterile Seven is what the deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency had called it: it was a safe house reserved by the Mobius planners for their occasional use, one of ten around the country. Janson would be protected here, he was assured; equally important, he would have access to the most sophisticated communications equipment, including direct access to the extensive data banks compiled by the joint intelligence services of the United States.