Liz shook her head. “According to what I’ve gotten off of the UN servers, he can’t. Not really. I mean, technically, the king is a deposed monarch, which means he has no official authority to speak on behalf of Caspia.”
I couldn’t help myself. I looked at the people who filled the streets, many of them carrying signs with a royal crown on them, pictures of the king. “Yeah. But you’d have a hard time convincing them of that.”
We drove as far as we could, then Macey parked the van. We left Liz there to run our comms and do her magic with the computer. As we walked toward the East River, the wind blew harder, and the crowds grew heavier with each passing step.
“Cam,” Macey said, “have you heard anything else from your mom?”
I shook my head, but it took me a second to speak. “I put a post on the message board that we know what the Inner Circle is planning. But she may not get it in time. Or she may be too far away or already engaged in another op or…”
Hurt.
Dead.
Imprisoned.
I didn’t like any of the other possible ends of that sentence, so I didn’t say them. No one blamed me. No good would come from saying them aloud.
“I think about the Caspia I knew as a child.” A voice came booming through the streets, and my friends and I all stopped to listen. The man’s English bore the accent of someone who was raised in the Middle East but educated in the West—America, or England, maybe. And when he spoke, it was like all of New York fell under his trance.
There was no denying it: that was the voice of a king.
“He’s here.” Until I said the words, I hadn’t realized how much I’d been hoping that it all might have been just a false alarm, an easy fix. “Liz, I thought you hacked into Homeland Security and told them there was a potential terror threat at the UN this afternoon?”
“I did!” she countered. “I gave them enough to shut down half the city. I don’t know what’s happening.”
“I do.”
Until then, Preston had been quiet. An observer. A guest. He seemed almost surprised when we all turned to him. “I mean, have you ever seen a politician give up a microphone?” Preston quipped, then shrugged. “I haven’t.”
And I knew he had a point.
“We’re too late,” Macey said.
The United Nations was right ahead of us, on the other side of a wide avenue that had been blocked off. Crowds stood between us and the long row of flags from all the participating countries. The flags blew in the wind, the flagpoles standing like a hundred sentries guarding the entrance to the building.
But the people on the street didn’t care about the towering glass-and-steel structure. Their eyes were trained upon the small grassy area that had been cordoned off, a man and a microphone centered on the small stage.
“There were hard times,” the man said, “but there was hope. There was fear, but there was also courage. I think of the Caspia that I wanted for my child, and my heart breaks that Amirah will never know the sunrises over our sea. My soul bleeds to think that all of our children will never know a Caspia without tyranny and fear!”
The crowds erupted in thunderous applause.
“What do we know?” I asked.
“Amirah, crown princess of Caspia,” Liz said through our comms units, rattling off enough facts to make Mr. Smith proud; but the time for tests was over. We were never going to be graded again. “She’s second in line to the throne.”
“No, Liz,” Bex countered. “She doesn’t have a throne anymore.”
“What do we know about the security situation?” I asked, this time being more specific.
“We’ve got to get him out of here,” Macey said.
“Zach, talk to me.” I turned to the boy who had spent more time with Joe Solomon than any of us, and Zach didn’t wait for instructions.
“Since he’s not an official visiting dignitary, the Secret Service won’t be here. He will have private security and the NYPD.”
“Good. Macey, you and Preston go find the cops and his private security detail. Beg, plead—lie if you have to—but get someone to get him off that stage.”
“Got it,” Macey said. She grabbed Preston’s hand, and together they took off, pushing through the crowds.