The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,252

Harry Winston, or simply to sampling the sexual bazaar of the great metropolis.

In fact, the ample beard did double duty: it not only helped alter Janson's appearance but served to disguise a small filament microphone, activated by a switch in his front trouser pocket. He had, as a precaution, placed a microphone on the secretary-general as well; it was mounted within a small nodule on his gold collar bar, and was completely hidden behind his wide four-in-hand knot.

The long ramp led to a walkway immediately adjoining the General Assembly Building, where seven entrances were set back into the marble exterior of the curving, low-slung building. Janson kept moving among the incoming crowds, always looking as if he had just seen an old friend across the way. Now he consulted his watch; the fifty-eighth annual meeting of the General Assembly would come to order in just five minutes. Was Alan Demarest going to arrive? Had he ever intended to?

It was a barrage of camera flashes that first signaled the legend's arrival. The TV crews, which had dutifully recorded the arrival of the great and the good, potentates and plenipotentiaries, now focused their video-cameras, boom mikes, and key lights upon the elusive benefactor. He was difficult to pick out from the tightly huddled group in which he walked. There, indeed, was New York's mayor, with a hand around the humanitarian's shoulder, whispering something that seemed to amuse the plutocrat. To the man's other side, the senior senator of New York State, who served also as the deputy chairman of the Senate's Foreign Relations Committee, kept in step. A small entourage of senior aides and civic luminaries followed close behind. Secret Service agents were stationed at strategic intervals, no doubt ensuring that the area was free of snipers and other potential malefactors.

As the man known to the world as Peter Novak entered the West Lobby, he was swiftly hustled by his entourage into the executive suite behind the Assembly Hall. Outside it, the soles and heels of hundreds of expensive shoes clattered against the terrazzo flooring as the lobby began to empty and the hall began to fill.

This was Janson's cue to retreat to the central security booth, located behind the main balcony of the Assembly Hall. An array of small square monitors surrounded a large monitor; they displayed multiple camera angles on the hall itself. At his request, hidden cameras had also been placed in the suites tucked away behind the dais. The secretary-general's security consultant wanted to be able to keep an eye on all the principals.

Adjusting the control panel, he shifted among camera angles, zooming in, looking for the table where the delegation from the Islamic Republic of Mansur would be seated. It did not take long.

There, seated at the aisle, was a handsome man in flowing robes that matched those of the other men in the Mansur delegation. Janson pressed several buttons on the console and the image appeared on the large central monitor, supplanting the wide-angle overhead view of the assembly. Now he enlarged the image further, digitally reduced the shadows, and watched, mesmerized, as the large flat-screen monitor filled with the unmistakable visage.

Ahmad Tabari. The man they called the Caliph.

Rage coursed through Janson like electricity as he studied the planes of his ebony face, his aquiline nose and strong, chiseled jaw. The Caliph was charismatic even in repose.

Janson pressed several buttons, and the central screen feed switched to the hidden camera in the executive suite.

A different face, a different kind of merciless charisma: the charisma of a man who did not aspire, a man who had. The full head of hair, still more black than gray, the high cheekbones, the elegant three-button suit: Peter Novak. Yes, Peter Novak: it was who the man had become, and it was the way Janson had to think of him. He sat at one end of a blond-wood table, near a telephone that was directly connected to a intercommunication system at the high marble dais in the Assembly Hall as well as to the technicians' stations. A corner-mounted closed-circuit television allowed the VIPs in the executive suite to keep abreast of developments within the hall.

Now the door to the suite opened: two members of the Secret Service with curled wires descending from their earpieces made a visual inspection of the room.

Janson pressed another button, switching camera angles.

Peter Novak stood up. Smiled at his visitor.

The president of the United States.

A man normally brimming with self-confidence was looking ashen. There was no audio