Page 38 of Circle of Death
“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.
