Page 37 of Circle of Death
“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 thefrontof my mind is focused on even bigger problems. World-shaking problems. Maybe world-endingproblems.
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 The glass exterior is laced with vines, and some of the reflective panels have been replaced by plywood.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 longthatlasts.” 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. Hisbestself.
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.”
