the use of the secretary-general and a general "executive suite." Given the placement of the security details, it would simply be impossible to launch an assault on those spaces. On his third walkabout, Janson found himself drawn to what seemed to be a little-used chapel, or as it had more recently come to be styled, meditation room. It was a small narrow space with a Chagall mural at one end, just down the corridor from the main entrance to the Assembly Hall.
Finally, Janson walked down the long ramp on the western side of the building, from which the delegates would be pouring in. The geometry of security was impressive: the looming bulk of the Secretariat itself functioned as a shield, offering protection from most angles. The adjacent streets would be blocked off to nonofficial traffic: only accredited journalists and members of the diplomatic delegations would be permitted in the vicinity.
Alan Demarest couldn't have chosen a safer venue if he'd retreated to a bunker in Antarctica.
The more Janson explored the situation, the more he admired the tactical genius of his nemesis. Something truly extraordinary would have to happen to foil it - which meant that they were counting on something that could not be counted on.
What fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness?
Yet Janson saw the imperative for such a fellowship more clearly than anyone. Defeating this master of subterfuge would require something more than the bloodless, calculated moves and countermoves of the rational planners: it called for the unbridled, unslakable, irrational, and, yes, unbounded wrath of a true fanatic. About that there could be no dispute: their best chance to defeat Demarest was to resort to the one thing that could not be controlled.
To be sure, the planners imagined they could control it. But they never had, never could. They were all of them playing with fire.
They had to prepare to get burned.
CHAPTER FORTY
The motorcades started arriving at the U.N. Plaza at seven o'clock the next morning, escorting humanity of every cultural and political coloration. Military heads of state in their full-dress uniforms strode up the ramp as if reviewing their troops, feeling protected and empowered by their self-bestowed ribbons and bars. They regarded the narrow-shouldered leaders of the so-called democracies as nothing more than puffed-up central bankers: did not their dark suits and tight-knotted ties signal allegiance to the mercantile classes rather than to the authentic glories of national power? The elected leaders of the liberal democracies, in turn, viewed such gaudy regalia as the generals sported with scorn and disapproval: what miserable social backwardness enabled these caudillos to grab power? Thin leaders looked at fat leaders and entertained fleeting thoughts about their lack of self-control: no wonder their countries had incurred staggering foreign debts. The stout leaders, for their part, regarded their attenuated Western counterparts as colorless and chilly Grad-grinds, sapless administrators rather than true leaders of men. Such were the thoughts that flickered beyond each toothy smile.
Like molecules, the clusters mingled and collided, formed and reformed. Vacuous pleasantries stood in for long-winded complaints. A rotund president of a central African state embraced the lanky German foreign minister, and both knew precisely what the embrace signified: Can we move forward with debt restructuring? Why should I be stuck servicing loans taken by my predecessor - after all, I had him shot! A gaudily bedizened potentate from Central Asia greeted the prime minister of Great Britain with a dazzling smile and the tacit protest: The border dispute we have with our belligerent neighbor is not a matter of international concern. The president of a troubled NATO member state that was the rump of a once great empire sought out his opposite number from stable, prosperous Sweden and made small talk about his last visit to Stockholm. The unspoken message: Our actions against the Kurdish villages within our borders may disturb your pampered human-rights activists, but we have no choice but to defend ourselves from forces of sedition. Behind every handclasp, hug, and back clap was a grievance, for grievances were the cement of the international community.
Circulating among the delegations was a man wearing a kaffiyeh, a full beard, and sunglasses: typical attire among certain ruling-class Arabs. He looked, in short, like any of a hundred diplomatic representatives from Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Mansur, Oman, or the United Emirates. The man looked self-possessed and a little pleased: no doubt he was happy to be in New York, looking forward to making a side trip to