This was Janson’s cue to retreat to the central security booth, located behind the main balcony of the Assembly Hall. An array of small square monitors surrounded a large monitor; they displayed multiple camera angles on the hall itself. At his request, hidden cameras had also been placed in the suites tucked away behind the dais. The secretary-general’s security consultant wanted to be able to keep an eye on all the principals.

Adjusting the control panel, he shifted among camera angles, zooming in, looking for the table where the delegation from the Islamic Republic of Mansur would be seated. It did not take long.

There, seated at the aisle, was a handsome man in flowing robes that matched those of the other men in the Mansur delegation. Janson pressed several buttons on the console and the image appeared on the large central monitor, supplanting the wide-angle overhead view of the assembly. Now he enlarged the image further, digitally reduced the shadows, and watched, mesmerized, as the large flat-screen monitor filled with the unmistakable visage.

Ahmad Tabari. The man they called the Caliph.

Rage coursed through Janson like electricity as he studied the planes of his ebony face, his aquiline nose and strong, chiseled jaw. The Caliph was charismatic even in repose.

Janson pressed several buttons, and the central screen feed switched to the hidden camera in the executive suite.

A different face, a different kind of merciless charisma: the charisma of a man who did not aspire, a man who had. The full head of hair, still more black than gray, the high cheekbones, the elegant three-button suit: Peter Novak. Yes, Peter Novak: it was who the man had become, and it was the way Janson had to think of him. He sat at one end of a blond-wood table, near a telephone that was directly connected to a intercommunication system at the high marble dais in the Assembly Hall as well as to the technicians’ stations. A corner-mounted closed-circuit television allowed the VIPs in the executive suite to keep abreast of developments within the hall.

Now the door to the suite opened: two members of the Secret Service with curled wires descending from their earpieces made a visual inspection of the room.

Janson pressed another button, switching camera angles.

Peter Novak stood up. Smiled at his visitor.

The president of the United States.

A man normally brimming with self-confidence was looking ashen. There was no audio feed, but it was clear that the president was asking the Secret Service detail to leave the two of them alone.

Wordlessly, the president withdrew a sealed envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to Peter Novak. His hands trembled.

In profile, the two were a study in contrasts: one, the leader of the free world, seeming defeated and slightly stooped; the other, broad-shouldered and triumphant.

The president nodded and looked, for a moment, as if he wanted to say something, then thought the better of it.

He walked out.