The secretary-general’s eyes flicked back to the pages on the lectern in front of him. Four paragraphs of text, which he had already read; he had nothing more prepared and, in the tension of the moment, very little notion of what might appropriately be said. One would have had to know him intimately to notice that the blood had drained from his dark brown face.

“Progress has been made all over the world,” he said, his vowels orotund, his message embarrassingly banal. “Genuine advances in development and international comity have been seen in Europe, from Spain to Turkey, from Romania to Germany, from Switzerland and France and Italy to Hungary, Bulgaria, and Slovakia, not to mention the Czech Republic, Slovenia, and, of course, Poland. Genuine progress has been made, too, in Latin America—from Peru to Venezuela, from Ecuador to Paraguay, from Chile to Guyana and French Guyana, from Colombia to Uruguay to Bolivia, from Argentina to …” He was drawing a blank: I’ll take South American nation-states for one hundred, Alex. He scanned the rows of delegations before him, his eyes darting from one national placard to another. “To, well, Suriname!” A sense of relief, fleeting as a glowworm’s flash. “The developments in Suriname have been most heartening, most heartening indeed.” How long could he draw this out? What was taking Janson so long?

Zinsou cleared his throat. He was a man who seldom perspired; he was perspiring now. “And, of course, we would be remiss if we did not single out for attention the progress we have seen among the nations of the Pacific Rim … .”

Janson stared at the man who had robbed him of the happiness that had once been his, the man who had stolen the treasure of his life.

He bowed his legs slightly, keeping his feet spaced out at shoulder level. “I have offended you,” he said plaintively. Suddenly, he swept his left elbow up over the Caliph’s right shoulder and grabbed the wrist of his gun arm with both hands. With a powerful upward wrench, he locked the man’s arm. Then he lashed out with his left leg, and the two men landed hard on the slate floor. The Caliph whipped his left hand repeatedly to the side of Janson’s head. Yet a protective move would enable the Caliph to wriggle free: Janson had no choice but to try to endure the painful blows. The only viable defense would be an offense. He forced the Anuran’s wrist into a lock, twisting it palm upward. The Caliph followed the direction of his pressure, angling the Ruger toward Janson’s body.

It would take only an instant for his trigger finger to fire a lethal shot.