Nobody moved except Chase. Oblivious to the silence, the ranks of watching people, the TV and movie cameras, he ran across the platform under the blazing lights, momentarily dazzled as he plunged off into the surrounding darkness, glimpsing a pair of skinny white ankles scrambling up the steps toward the nearest tunnel exit. The kid knew he'd been spotted. He was getting out fast while he had the chance.
It was then that the auditorium came suddenly, explosively, to life.
There were shouts and screams. Some of the delegates dived down for cover while others scrambled over seats, trying to get clear. Ingrid Van Dorn stood motionless and staring behind the microphones, spectacles in hand. All at once there were security guards everywhere, converging on the platform with weapons drawn. Whereas no one had noticed the black-robed figure, the sudden appearance of Chase was in the classic pattern of the lone assassin. At once he became the prime target of the security force--like the guard who now confronted him, standing straddle-legged at the top of the steps, Police Special aimed unwaveringly at the center of his chest.
Chase stopped halfway up and immediately threw up his hands. His breathing ragged, hair plastered damply to his forehead, he really thought he was about to be shot and killed because he couldn't get the words out.
"That kid--black robes--you must have seen him! Skinny kid ran down the tunnel--"
"Hold it! Don't move!" Hard eyes under the shiny white brim of his helmet. Eyes and gun didn't waver an inch.
"You stupid bastard, he's getting away!" Chase lowered his hands in a forlorn gesture of despair. Already it was too late.
"I said don't move!" The transceiver clipped to the guard's white belt beeped, but he ignored it, watching Chase like a hawk.
"Answer it," Chase implored. When the guard made no move he snarled, "Answer the fucking thing!"
"Shut up and don't move." The guard unhooked the transceiver, thumbed a button, and held it to his ear. He listened hard-eyed to the rapid squawking babble. The gabble ceased, and the guard rapped, "Name?"
Wearily, Chase told him. The guard lowered his gun. He still didn't seem convinced. He straightened up and said, "We have instructions to give you every assistance. Which way did he go?"
Chase gestured toward the tunnel. Perhaps it didn't matter all that much. The assassination attempt had failed and there was no way the kid could get out of the building without being spotted. Let the security people deal with it--they were armed and trained for this kind of situation.
Breathing easier, yet feeling his age, Chase went down the tunnel, even more in need of the drink he'd been about to pour himself twenty minutes earlier.
On the large screen an announcer was making bland apologies and filling in time. Chase added soda to his whiskey and leaned back against the bar. In the whirlwind of events he'd almost forgotten why he'd come to the UN in the first place--there were still arrangements to be finalized with Prothero and Ingrid Van Dorn. But that could wait. First things first.
He raised the glass to his lips, noticing a shadow obscuring the announcer's right shoulder, and as the shadow vanished Mara came out from behind the screen.
The glass slipped from Chase's hand, spilling its contents down his shirt and trousers and bouncing with a dull hollow thud on the carpet.
Crouching, the black hump weighing down the frail body, Mara extended his right arm to reveal a metal nozzle in the palm of his hand, connected to a plastic tube that was taped to the inside of his forearm, disappearing into his robes underneath his armpit.
Chase stood as if paralyzed, incapable of movement or sound. His one conscious physical sensation was that of whiskey and soda soaking into his shirt and trickling down warmly into his groin. With his back pressed against the hard rounded edge of the bar he watched Mara take a lighter from the small leather pouch and raise the metal cap with his thumb.
Meaningless noises floated in the air.
. . not possible at the moment . . . security clampdown . . . UN completely sealed off . . . soon as we have further . . . will of course ... in the meantime . . ."
A small blue flame sprang up, like a pilot light.
Mara's hand closed around the brass nozzle, thumb and forefinger turning the valve tap. There was a soft hissing sound, like that of a reptile preparing to strike. With a mechanical action, as if preprogrammed, the hand holding the lighter jerked forward and applied the tiny blue flame to the end of the nozzle.
Chase slid along the edge of the bar as the propylene ignited and spewed a molten sword of flame that bathed the room's tasteful furnishings and silken drapes in a fierce bright sulfurous yellow light. The heat was tremendous. Chase turned his face away, feeling his skin scorch. There was no escape. He was trapped. The door was on the other side of the swathe of fire.
