Camera angle no. two. Novak slipping the envelope into his own breast pocket. That envelope, Janson knew, could change the course of world history.

And it was only the first installment.

The Caliph glanced at his watch. Timing would be everything. The metal detectors made it impossible for even delegation members to carry in firearms; this was as he expected. Yet securing such a weapon would be an elementary task. There were hundreds of them in the building, the property of the United Nations security guards and other such protectors. He had little respect for them or their skill: the Caliph had faced down some of the deadliest warriors in the world. It had been his personal valor that earned him the undying respect of his ragged and uneducated followers. Mastery of ideology or Koran verses by itself would not have sufficed. They were a people who needed to know that their leaders had physical courage, intestinal as well as intellectual fortitude.

The aura of invincibility he had lost that dreadful night at the Steenpaleis he would regain, redoubled, even, once he had completed this, his most daring act. He would do the deed, and in the ensuing uproar, he would be able to make his escape in the speedboat docked at the East River, just a hundred feet east of the building. The world would learn that their righteous cause could not be ignored.

Yes, getting his hands on a high-powered gun would be almost as easy as taking it off a warehouse shelf. Prudence, however, had required that he wait until the last moment to acquire it. The more time that elapsed afterward, the greater the chance of exposure. Securing the weapon, after all, meant deactivating its possessor.

According to the schedule of events that had been shared with Mansur’s U.N. ambassador, Peter Novak would commence his address within five minutes. This member of the Mansur security detail would have to take a quick trip to the bathroom. He pushed out the latch-lever door that led out of the hall, and made his way toward the chapel.

The Caliph walked very fast, his sandals echoing on the terrazzo, until he caught the attention of a squarejawed, crew-cut American Secret Service agent. This was even better than an ordinary U.N. security officer: his weaponry would be of particularly high quality.

“Sir,” he said to the dark-suited agent. “I protect the leader of the Islamic Republic of Mansur.”

The Secret Service agent looked away; foreign heads of state did not fall within his bailiwick.

“We have received a report that someone is hiding—in there!” He gestured toward the chapel.

“I can ask someone to check it out,” the American said impassively. “Can’t leave my post.”

“It’s just over there. I myself think there’s nobody there at all.”

“We had the whole place turned over a few hours before. Be inclined to agree with you.”