Circle of Death, page 10
I know it, too.
I’m the one who’s about to kill them.
CHAPTER 42
“WHAT THE HELL did you do to him?”
It’s a woman’s voice. Familiar, but foggy. My eyes are still clamped shut. I’m lying on the ground with hard pebbles pressing into my back. I’m not sure where I am, but I’m in my own body again. At least I think so.
“He pushed too far too fast.” A man’s voice.
“You’re the teacher, dammit! Control him!” Another woman. Younger. As soon as she speaks, the haze in my brain starts to clear. I open my eyes and look up. I’m in my garden, with Margo and Maddy kneeling over me. Dache is sitting on the stone bench, hands folded in his lap. Margo turns on him.
“Dammit, Dache! He always tries to do too much. You know that. It’s the way he’s always been. That’s why he’s always just one step away from disaster. He trusted you!”
“I cautioned him,” says Dache. “We discussed the risks.”
“You should have stopped him!” Margo fires back.
I blink and run my hands over my face. I jerk my hands away, expecting to see blood. But I don’t. Now I remember what just happened to me. Most of it, anyway.
I sit up and look at Margo. “I was there!”
“Where?”
“At the murder! The two kids at the fair. Last night. I just saw it.”
I see Maddy’s eyes narrow. “What murder?”
“We’ll explain,” says Margo.
But Maddy is way ahead of her. “Is this why you didn’t want me at the fair? You knew somebody was going to be killed?”
My head hurts. I’m in no mood for an argument. “We knew it might happen, yes.
And we didn’t want it to be you!”
“Who did it?” asks Margo. “Who’s the killer?”
I put my head in my hands, still a little shaky and confused. “I was. It was me.”
Margo glares at Dache. “What’s he talking about?”
Dache slides off the bench and helps me to my feet. “Lamont didn’t kill anyone. He just saw it through the killer’s eyes.”
I pull away from Dache. “I’ll go back! If I can see it from one of the victims’ point of view, I can ID the killer.”
“Over my dead body,” says Margo. “The only place your brain is going is inside to rest.”
Maddy is standing with arms folded over her chest. I know a sulking pose when I see one. She’s angry at being kept in the dark about a case this important. And I guess she has a right to be. Was I just keeping her away to protect her—or to show her who’s boss?
Dache steps up to distract her.
“Madeline,” he says. “It’s time for your training. You need to…”
Margo puts a hand up to stop him. “Forget it,” she says. “You’ve done enough damage for one day.” She puts her arm around my shoulder and leads me toward the house. Maddy turns toward Dache with fire in her eyes. I can tell she’s about to give him a piece of her mind, too.
But before she can say a word, Dache is gone.
All that’s left is a gently fluttering butterfly.
CHAPTER 43
BY THE NEXT morning, I feel pretty much back to normal. Maybe better than normal—the way you feel when you’ve lived through something that could have wrecked you. For a while after, all the regular activities of life seem more significant and meaningful.
Like picking out the right suit and tie.
“Lamont, for God’s sake, slow down!” Margo is sitting up in bed, watching me get dressed. I can tell she half expects me to topple over.
“We need to go,” I tell her. “The speech is at ten, remember?”
I’m switching gears again. I have no choice. Because along with trying to find the World’s Fair killer, we also need to deal with the Command. And to do that, we need to keep the president of the Americas alive. He’s scheduled to speak before the general assembly at United Nations Headquarters this morning, and Burbank picked up some chatter that somebody might try to kill him there. Big stage. Big opportunity. The chatter might be bogus, but I can’t take that chance.
“Lamont, the man has his own security. So does the UN, I’m pretty sure.”
“Not enough. We can’t trust anybody else.”
“Then talk Diaz out of speaking. He sought you out. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”
“Not on this he won’t.”
Most world leaders—good and bad—have an unquenchable need to show their faces in person. It feeds their ego and demonstrates their power. It lets people know who’s in charge. It makes a statement. And makes them juicy targets. If somebody wants to kill one of the few decent leaders left on the planet, the United Nations would make a pretty historic setting.
“Margo, he asked for our help.”
“Yes. By figuring out how to disarm the Command. Not by becoming his personal bodyguards.”
I slip into my jacket and press an extra dimple into my pocket square. “I promise, he’ll never even know we’re there.” I picked the dark gray pinstripe suit with the European cut. Like any cookie-cutter diplomat. “How do I look?”
Margo gives me a once-over. “Like you’re ready to settle a border dispute.”
I tap my watch.
Grumbling, Margo throws back the bedcovers, then straightens her nightgown over her long legs and shuffles to her dressing table mirror. To me, Margo is never anything less than beautiful—even now, when her face is a little puffy and her hair is matted on one side of her head. She leans toward the mirror and rubs her eyes.
“Give me ten minutes,” she says. “I can’t save the world looking like this.”
CHAPTER 44
EXACTLY TEN MINUTES later, we’re sitting in the back of the limo, headed toward UN Headquarters on the East River. Margo is sitting next to me, with only her beautiful blue eyes showing through a silk chiffon niqab—her idea for blending in.
As Moe drives, Jericho’s head pops around the passenger seat headrest. “Feeling better, boss?”
“Will everybody please stop asking me how I feel? I’m fine. Focus on today.”
In the back of my mind, I’m thinking of ways to lure the World’s Fair killer into the open without risking my brain again, and without getting anybody else killed. But the front of my mind is focused on even bigger problems. World-shaking problems. Maybe world-ending problems.
Jericho faces front and does a quick comms check with home base. As we ride, Burbank is sitting in his tiny communications center under the top floor staircase, keeping track of everything, including us.
When we reach the corner of East 44th and UN Plaza, I see the iconic building looming ahead. But it’s not what it used to be. The glass exterior is laced with vines, and some of the reflective panels have been replaced by plywood. Others are cracked and bowed. I guess we’re lucky it’s still standing at all.
During his regime, Khan had no use for diplomatic relations or peacekeeping missions. In a symbolic gesture, he had the UN’s most revered statues thrown into the East River. The same civic committee that supervised the World’s Fair burnished the building just enough to make it presentable again—or at least not a total embarrassment.
Moe pulls around the circular fountain in front of the building. As we slow down in front of the entrance, a guard pounds on the hood and waves us forward. “No stopping!” he shouts. He’s jumpy, pistol at the ready.
When I turn around and look through the rear window, I see why. An imposing motorcade is sweeping into the circle right behind us. The president of the Americas has arrived.
The motorcade stops. We all watch as the security team jumps out and secures a pathway to the entrance. Lucian Diaz emerges from the rear seat of the middle vehicle, buttoning the jacket of his suit. He gives onlookers a flash of his broad smile before reverting to his purposeful demeanor. A small crowd of civilians behind a police barrier shouts and waves frantically, as if they were watching Jesus stroll on the Sea of Galilee.
“He looks pretty confident,” says Margo.
“Right,” says Jericho. “Let’s see how long that lasts.” He climbs out of the passenger side and opens the back door. Margo slides out first in her flowing floor-length garment. It’s simple, but elegant. Pure Margo.
Before sliding out of the backseat, I lean forward toward Moe. “Okay. We’re going in. You know the drill.”
He turns with a grin and repeats the mantra of the getaway driver. “Stay close. Stay awake. Keep the motor running.”
I reach out and pat him on the shoulder. He’s great behind the wheel, just like his ancestor. And more important, he’s a good man—as good as they come.
I watch him pull away toward a VIP parking area and then I head into the entryway with Margo and Jericho. The instant we cross the threshold, we’re no longer in the United States. We’re in international territory. Normal rules no longer apply. Especially these days. I’m not sure what to expect.
As we pass through the metal detectors, the guards only give our forged passports a cursory look. A lot of wasted effort on Burbank’s part, and a bad sign for security overall. Seems loose and uncoordinated.
As we walk up the sweeping ramp to the second level, I can see how impressive this place must have been. I’ve heard about the great things that were achieved here. Now it feels like a relic. The walls are cracked and I can see ugly water stains crawling across the ceilings. The recent efforts were a touch-up, nothing more. Sad.
The official delegates are already moving into the huge Assembly Hall. The reception space is packed with minor diplomats and aides, speaking a dozen languages. Whispers of new attacks and mass graves are racing around the room. I can only catch snippets of conversations, but it’s clear things are getting worse, not better, all over the world.
Margo is better at languages than I ever was. I glance at her to see if she’s picking up anything meaningful. She shakes her head. No surprise. Trying to follow a conversation in this hubbub is like trying to pick one buzz out of a hive.
I spot Diaz’s security detail standing in front of a door just off the lobby. A few seconds later, the man himself emerges from the room and walks toward the entrance to the Assembly Hall. He pauses for a moment, straightens his shoulders, and nods. When the doors open for him, the diplomats inside rise to their feet. Nothing but respect as Diaz strides down the green-carpeted aisle toward the podium.
Time to split up. It’s our best chance of spotting any danger. There’s no way three people can cover the entire complex, but with Burbank’s help, we’ll do our best. The threat to Diaz could be totally fake, or totally real. And if it’s real, it could come from any direction.
I nod to Jericho and Margo. Then I disappear. Right there in the middle of the UN lobby. The four men chatting next to me don’t even notice. As soon as I’m gone, Margo heads down the main aisle to take a seat in the audience. Jericho starts making his way toward the elevator bank. I know we’re spread too thin. I really wish I had Hawkeye and Tapper along with us. If they’re anything like the men they were named after, they’d add solid skills and sound judgment.
But right now, I’m not sure they even exist.
CHAPTER 45
BACK AT THE mansion, Burbank is totally focused—and totally content. He prefers working alone. That’s when he feels most secure and centered. Huddled in his tiny chamber under the staircase, he’s unencumbered and in control. No distractions. He feels like himself. His best self.
He doesn’t mind the company of animals, though. When Bando wanders in and starts sniffing around the console, Burbank gives him a scratch between the ears and lets him settle down under his chair.
“Okay, buddy, let’s see what we can see…”
Burbank taps a keypad. The console lights up.
Hacking into the security system at United Nations Headquarters was a lot easier than it should have been. Some of the technology was almost a century old, and even the modern software hadn’t been updated in decades. The hodgepodge of wired and wireless circuits had lot of weak links, easy to exploit, even with Burbank’s Frankensteined equipment.
He managed to tap into a fair number of security cameras, especially the black-and-white antiques. He’s also got a setup for biometric scanning, to detect NanoDevices in temperature. A lot of the UN audio scramblers, however, are airtight. They block incoming communication in large chunks of the building. In those spaces Burbank can see the team, but he can’t communicate with them. The one clear channel he has is to the limo. He toggles the mic button. “You hear me, Moe?”
“Loud and clear.”
“What’s the mood?”
“If Diaz talks as good as he looks,” says Moe, “hugs all around.”
“Stay put,” says Burbank. “I’ll let you know when to move.”
“Don’t worry,” says Moe. “I’ve got my seat reclined and the AC on full. I’m not going anywhere.”
Burbank scans the array of small monitors in front of him, each one connected to a series of visual and thermal taps. Some of the connections are clearer than others, but he’s got a fair overview of the building—in bits and pieces.
On one screen, he sees Margo taking her seat in the General Assembly Hall gallery. Her resplendent garment is a clear marker, even without the tracker sewn into the hem. On another screen, Burbank spots Jericho headed toward a rear staircase.
Burbank’s eyes flick to the view backstage, where human security is tightest. Men with automatic weapons stand in the wings like a small army, braced for trouble.
Burbank adjusts his glasses and squints at the screen. He toggles a key to zoom in over one of the agent’s shoulders. He smiles. Sure enough. There’s Lamont, right where he said he’d be, just a few yards behind the podium, taking up almost no space at all.
An actual fly on the wall.
CHAPTER 46
IT’S TIME.
The crowd in the large auditorium settles into their seats behind rising rows of curved desks. As Burbank watches, Diaz mounts the short step to the rostrum and takes his place behind a podium with the UN emblem emblazoned in gold on the front.
At least half of the delegates place headsets over one ear to hear the simultaneous translation. Every seat is filled, except for a row of chairs directly in front of the podium. All of those spaces—about fifty of them—are vacant. Diaz lets the murmurs settle until the room is as silent as a cathedral. Then he begins to speak.
“Madam Secretary General. Delegates. Fellow citizens of the world. I’m grateful for your invitation to address you today in this temple of peace.” The audio feed is good, and Diaz has one of those booming voices that would carry even without a microphone.
Amplified, it rattles the speakers in Burbank’s tiny enclosure.
“All of us in this grand hall hold positions of power and influence, but we are not the most important people here today. Far from it.”
Diaz gestures toward the back of the assembly hall. Every head turns. The massive doors open. Burbank switches to a wide view of the chamber as a solemn procession heads down the center aisle.
A procession of children.
Some are teenagers. Some are as young as four or five, nervously holding hands with older companions. The group includes children of every race and hue. And every single one is broken in some way. Some are limping or walking with canes. Some are marked by brutal scars. Others are missing hands or arms. Several propel themselves in wheelchairs. The delegates turn, wide-eyed and silent, as the procession passes by them.
“These are the important ones,” says Diaz. “The children of conflict and hatred. The orphans. The maimed. The ones who will never see again, or walk again. They are not here to elicit your pity. Pity is cheap. They are here to bear witness to our decisions—to the path we choose from here. They are here to ask if we will unite against evil, or be consumed by it.”
One by one, then in whole groups, the delegates and spectators rise and begin to applaud. Burbank sees Margo stand along with the others. As the procession reaches the front of the hall, the children file left and right to fill the spaces in front. They settle with their faces turned up toward the podium.
“In this room, we speak in many tongues,” says Diaz. “But these children have a common language. The language of grief, loss, and pain. This language knows no borders. And it needs no translation. We all understand it. The question is, are we bold enough to do something about it?”
“Damn, he’s good,” Burbank mutters.
Suddenly a beep sounds from one of the thermal monitors.
Then another.
Burbank leans forward, sweat popping on his forehead. The scans are too primitive to reveal much detail. All he can see is that there are two new human heat signatures in the building—in places no human should be.
CHAPTER 47
TWO THREATS. TWO different levels of the building. Burbank quickly reviews his options. Lamont, in his present form, is unreachable. For now, Burbank will have to rely on Jericho and Margo. He leans forward and speaks into the console mic. “Two intrusions. Levels three and four.”
On his screen, he sees Jericho and Margo stiffen slightly as they get the alert in their earpieces.
“I’ll take four,” says Jericho, moving quickly along a fourth-floor corridor. “Location?” His reply is scratchy, barely audible.
“I’ll guide you,” says Burbank.
On another screen, Burbank sees Margo stand and slip out of the back of the gallery. “I’ll take three,” she whispers. On the main monitor, Diaz is still speaking. Burbank turns the volume down. The president’s smooth baritone is now just a low background in the tiny comms room. The threats are what matter now. Finding them. Eliminating them. Keeping the president alive.
The first heat signature is in the ductwork directly over the rostrum—seventy-five feet above Diaz. The thermal image appears as a reddish-orange blob. Organic and alive, for sure. But no clear definition. The second thermal image is on the third level, moving quickly along a restricted corridor. From the size and density, definitely human.
