“So let’s get our business done,” said the elegant man with the glossy black hair. “Here are instructions for getting in touch with me.” He handed the secretary-general a white card. “It’s a number you can call to get a return phone call within the hour. As our plans develop, we’ll need to be in regular touch. Your Swiss bank account has, you’ll find, already been enhanced—simply an advance on a package of benefits that we can finalize at a later point. And there will be regular monthly payments, which will continue as long as our partnership remains on a solid footing.”

Zinsou swallowed. “Very thoughtful.”

“Simply to put your mind at rest, because it will be very important that you’re able to focus on what truly matters, and not make any errors of judgment.”

“I understand.”

“It’s important that you do. In your speeches as secretary-general, you’ve often maintained that there’s a thin line between civilization and savagery. Let’s not put that proposition to the test.”

Janson kept a foot in the elevator door, triggering the electric eye and preventing the elevator from moving. “Give me the envelope,” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said; his Hungarian accent did not slip. If the words were defiant, however, the tone was apprehensive.

Janson formed his right hand into a spear and delivered a crushing punch to the man’s throat. As the man fell to the floor in a fit of helpless coughing, Janson dragged him out of the elevator. The man swung at Janson, a sluggish, poorly aimed uppercut. Janson dodged the punch and struck the Ruger against his temple in a controlled blow. The Novak impostor crumpled to the floor, unconscious. A quick frisk verified that there was no envelope on his person.

Now Janson crept toward Zinsou’s office, pausing just before the doorway. The sounds came both from his earpiece and through the door.

A clear, tinny voice in his ear: “This is all a bit unexpected.” Zinsou was speaking.

Janson turned the knob, threw open the door, and rushed in, the Ruger in his right hand. Demarest’s reaction to the intrusion was immediate and deft: he repositioned himself directly behind Zinsou. There was no line of fire that would reach him and not strike the secretary-general.

All the same, Janson fired—wildly, it seemed: three shots high overhead, three slugs smashing into the window, causing the whole pane to buckle and then disintegrate into a curtain of fragments.

And there was silence.

“Alan Demarest,” Janson said. “Love what you’ve done with your hair.”

“A poor shot, Paul. You shame your teacher.” Demarest’s voice, at once rich and astringent, resounded in the room as it had resounded in his memory for so many years.