“But you’ll take a look? Thirty seconds of your time? Doubtless there’s nothing to the report, but if we are mistaken on this score, we shall both be hard-pressed to explain why we did nothing.”

A grudging sigh. “Show the way.”

The Caliph held open the small wooden door to the chapel and waited until the Secret Service man walked through.

The chapel was a long narrow space, with a low ceiling and recessed lighting to either side; a spotlight illuminated a black lacquered box toward the end of the hall. It was topped with a glowing slab of glass—some Western designer’s notion of secular religiosity. On the wall opposite the door was a mural with crescents, circles, squares, triangles, all overlapping, evidently signifying some amalgam of creeds. So very Western, the conceit that one could have it all, like the trimmings on a Big Mac: needless to say, the spurious harmony was predicated upon the unquestioned dominion of Western permissiveness. At the other end, near the entrance, was a series of small benches with rush seats. The floor was of irregular rectangles of slate.

“Ain’t no place to hide here,” the man said. “There’s nothing.”

The heavy, soundproofed door closed behind them, cutting off the noises of the lobby.

“What would it matter?” the Caliph said. “You have no weapon. You’d be helpless against an assassin!”

The Secret Service man grinned and opened his navy jacket, putting his hands on his waist, allowing the long-barreled revolver to show from his shoulder holster.

“Apologies,” the Caliph said. He turned around, his back to the American, seemingly captivated by the mural. Then he took a step back.

“You’re wasting my time,” the American said.

Abruptly, the Caliph whipped his head back, cracking into the American’s chin. As the burly agent reeled, the Caliph’s hands snaked toward his shoulder holster and pulled out the .357 Magnum revolver, a Ruger SP101 equipped with a four-inch barrel for enhanced accuracy. He slammed the butt down on the agent’s head, ensuring that smug infidel would be unconscious for many hours.

Now he secreted the Ruger inside his small valise of tooled leather and dragged the muscle-bound American behind the ebonized light box, where he would be invisible to a casual visitor.

It was time to reenter the Assembly Hall. Time to avenge indignities. Time to make history.

He would prove himself worthy of the title that his followers had bestowed upon him. He was the Caliph indeed.

And he would not fail.

In the executive suite, the light on the black slimline phone started to glow: it was the speaker’s “ready in five” notification—standard procedure, alerting him a few minutes before he would be asked to step out in front of the assembled leadership of the planet.

Novak reached for the phone, listened, said, “Thank you.”

And as he watched, Janson felt a jolt of foreboding.

Something was wrong.