His brief gave him the flexibility to choose the optimum moment. Time and location had hardened, had narrowed down from the available options. Given these, he had now to arrange access.
He experienced neither impatience nor anticipation. He had been trained as pure function. The purpose of function was achievement of the mission. The mission would bring the Faith one small step (but one giant leap for mankind) nearer to Optimum Orbital Trajectory.
Crouching in the shadows, Mara studied the brightly illuminated entrance of the building through stinging eyes. Inside the sealed bulletproof glass enclosure he could see the ring of armed security guards. Access not possible. But the building was huge and had many entrances. There would be a way in, somewhere, and he would find it.
Mara moved on, keeping in the shadows. The harness chafed his shoulders. The cylinder of propylene underneath his black robes rubbed the flesh of his back raw. The cylinder gave him the deformed appearance and lurching gait of a hunchback. Had there been anyone to observe him he would have thought Mara one of life's unfortunate victims. When in truth he was precisely the opposite.
The dimpled bronze doors slid open and Prothero emerged, turning the key in the panel that would send the elevator back to the ground floor. Until activated the elevator wouldn't budge, a necessary precaution to prevent any intruder gaining access to the upper floors from the lobby. He pocketed the key and strode on to suite 4002.
Using his second key, he let himself into the penthouse. Below the tiny balcony hallway, the main living area was a deep well of mellow light and purple shadow. Sketches by Picasso and woodcuts by Munch hung on the rough-cast walls. Like a fragrance, a Mozart serenade drifted 011 the air, seeming to be everywhere, emanating from no particular point. On the edge of a pool of light cast by a huge table lamp, Ingrid Van Dorn sat half-reclining 011 a curved couch reading from a sheaf of typed pages, clear-framed reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, an empty martini glass dangling absently in one hand. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the low rectangular table in front of her, and next to the ashtray was a stack of books, used to support an open dictionary that couldn't have weighed an ounce under four pounds.
Prothero hung his overcoat and scarf in the closet and came lithely down the parabolic staircase of open carpeted treads. In a single movement he kissed the top of her head and took the glass from her fingers. At the bar he filled two freshly chilled glasses from the silver shaker, speared two black olives, and set her drink down within reach. He leaned back along the broad arm of the couch, sipping his drink and watching her profile, content to wait.
"Is it better to say 'poor' or 'impoverished'?" Ingrid nibbled her lower lip, not looking up.
"Relating to what or whom?"
"Nations."
" 'Poor,' " Prothero said without hesitation. " 'Impoverished' suggests a decline into poverty, whereas the nations you're referring to have always been poor." He stretched out his long legs, leaning on one elbow. "Are you going to let me read it?"
"Of course I am, Pro, darling." Ingrid reached for her cigarette and drew on it deeply. "I would like your opinion."
This was probably the most important speech of her career, Prothero reflected--certainly during her term of office as secretary-general. It was to be given before a plenary session of the General Assembly, all 243 countries. The world's media would be there in force, beaming it live by satellite to every part of the globe. A potential audience of 6.2 billion people. Ingrid would be in direct touch with all those who didn't think the annual address of the UN secretary-general a classic nonevent, a gigantic yawn.
And that was pertinent, because it was precisely what most people
