The chapel. A long, narrow space that was almost never used but was always kept open. It was adjacent to the secretary-general’s suite, just to the other side of the curved wall that fronted the Assembly Hall. The one room in the building where one was guaranteed to be unobserved.

Janson put on another burst of speed, and though his rubber-soled shoes made little sound, his breathing grew heavier.

Now he pushed open the heavy, soundproofed door and saw a man in flowing white robes bending down behind a large ebonized box. As the door closed behind Janson, the man whirled around.

The Caliph.

For a moment Janson was so convulsed with hate that he could not breathe. He composed his face into a look of friendly surprise.

The Caliph spoke first. “Khaif hallak ya akhi.”

Janson remembered his large beard and Arab-style headdress and forced himself to smile. He knew that the man had addressed him in Arabic; probably it was an insubstantial pleasantry, but he could only guess. In Janson’s best version of Oxbridge English—an Arab royal might well have been educated at such an institution, absorbed its customs—he said, “My dear brother, I hope I wasn’t intruding. It’s just that I’ve such a migraine, I was hoping to commune with the Prophet himself.”

The Caliph strode toward him. “Yet we would both be sorry to miss any more of the proceedings, having come so far. Don’t you agree?” His voice was like the hiss of a snake.

“You make a good point, my brother,” Janson said.

As the Caliph walked toward him, scrutinizing him closely, Janson’s skin began to crawl. He came closer and closer, until he was just a foot away. Janson remembered that social conceptions of permissible physical distance varied among cultures, that Arabs typically stood closer to each other than Westerners did. The Caliph placed a hand on Janson’s shoulder.

It was a gentle, friendly, confiding gesture—from the man who had killed his wife.

Involuntarily, Janson flinched.

His mind filled with a flood of images: a cascade of destruction, the ruined office building in downtown Caligo, the phone call informing him that his wife was dead.

The Caliph’s face suddenly closed.

Janson had betrayed himself.

The assassin knew.

The muzzle of a long-barreled revolver was jabbed into Janson’s chest. The Caliph had made his decision; his suspicious visitor would not be permitted to escape.

Mathieu Zinsou stared at the packed Assembly Hall, saw row after row of powerful men and women beginning to grow restive. He had promised that his introductory remarks would be brief; in fact, they turned out to be uncharacteristically rambling and prolix. Yet he had no choice but to stall! He saw the American ambassador to the U.N. exchange glances with his colleague the permanent representative; how was it that this acclaimed master of diplomatic oratory had become such a bore?