Daniel tugged at his bow tie, trying to even it out. “All about Arabs. I’ve been to Jerusalem a couple of times, and each time I go I try to make a side visit, you know? Damascus, Iran, places like that.”
“Jesus,” said the other waiter, “you’re asking for trouble.”
“Yeah, well, those bastards gave me some. I almost didn’t get to do this gig. They’d have given it to Lopez. Can you believe that? Lopez!”
Stan chimed in. “Well, it’s all your fault. What do you think they’re going to do, the world like it is now?”
“Oh, and I suppose you’ve never traveled anywhere?” Schuman retorted.
“All over the place, baby,” said Stan smugly. “But not places that raise eyebrows. I’m a big Costa Rica fan. Brazil, Peru. I love it down there.”
“You surf down there?” Schuman asked.
“Some, but mostly I do hikes up in the jungle.”
“I did that once,” the other waiter said. “Eco-tourist stuff.”
“That’s right,” Stan agreed with a hint of pride. “I’m an eco-tourist.”
13. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 P.M. AND 8 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
The sun was little more than a line of orange fire along the rim of the world. To the east the world was dark, but over the Santa Monica Mountains the sky looked bloody.
Jack parked several doors down from the Marcus Lee address. He and Sharpton, both rearmed, slipped out of the car quietly and padded along the street lined with the demimansions that were so in vogue. Streetlights had come on, and Jack skirted the pools of light until he reached the correct address — a tall white house at the end of the lane, removed from the others.
The porch light was on, as were several lights inside, but the place was quiet. The Secret Service said they had been checking in with the agents there on a regular basis, but Jack refused to believe it. If he was wrong, Chappelle could (and would) throw the book at him.
President Barnes walked into the Reception Hall with a conscious and confident stride. The hall was empty except for the priceless art on the wall, a dining table with two chairs, and the Premier of China.
Xu Boxiong. The name was as inscrutable as the man, as far as Barnes was concerned. Xu stood there, at the far side of the table, his arms straight down at his sides, his round face composed into a warm but unreadable expression, neither friendly nor otherwise. Though Xu was in his sixties, his hair was jet black and thick. The Chinese leader wore a pair of Coke-bottle glasses, though Mitch Rasher had told Barnes that Xu’s eyesight was perfect. He wore the glasses like curtains over the windows to his soul.
It occurred to Barnes that, in all his political career, this was the first time he’d met a Communist.
Barnes crossed the distance between them, extended his hand, and said, “Mr. Premier, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”
Xu smiled and tipped his upper body. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. President,” he said in gently accented English.
And, as if the greeting had broken a spell, others flooded into the room. Four security agents, two from each country, stationed themselves at either of the two exits. Waiters entered bearing the favorite drinks of each leader. Barnes raised his glass to Xu, who did likewise. They sipped together.
“It is a shame Mr. Novartov could not join us,” Xu said. “Something to do with the flu. But perhaps in some way, better. We can speak more directly.”
Barnes nodded, not ready to enter the deeper discussion yet. “Would you like to sit down, or shall we admire the art?”
“I have often heard of the Vanderbilt collection,” Xu replied, his small eyes scanning the room. “Perhaps a circuit around the room?”
Barnes nodded and motioned with his arm. Xu stepped forward, and together they walked the perimeter of the room, stopping at each portrait to admire it or, in Barnes’s case, to pretend to admire it. He wasn’t much for fine art. He passed a picture of a bearded man that evoked strength but did nothing for him, and a picture of a young man in red that he vaguely remembered as being painted by Raphael. Both he and Xu stopped, as if by some unspoken signal, before a tall portrait of Louis XIV, the Sun King.
“Now there,” said Xu thoughtfully, “was a ruler.”
“Not a member of the party, though,” Barnes pointed out.
Xu turned to him and gave the slightest nod. “None of us, unfortunately, is perfect. But I was speaking of his leadership, not his politics. I aspire to be this sort of leader, and I am curious if you, too, have such aspirations, Mr. President.”
“One can hope”—Barnes decided to take the initiative— “that your leadership will include accommodating the wishes of the nations that wish to invite you into the Group of Eight.”
Xu sipped his drink. “What accommodations would those be?”
“Human rights,” the American President said simply. “We need movement on human rights to stop the kind of scene we had out here today.”
The Chinese leader turned to face Barnes fully, and lowered his drink so that nothing stood between the other man and him. “It is interesting to us that the U.S. is so concerned about human rights in China when it maintains detention camps around the globe.”
Barnes was ready for this, of course. Politics aside, human rights was an issue close to his heart, and one that had pained him during his entire presidency. He had stuck his integrity in his back pocket countless times, but never at the expense of those who suffered under injustice.
“Sir,” he said firmly, “if we are to have any sort of dialogue whatsoever, you will never again compare our detention of terrorists and murderers to the incarceration of those who simply disagree with you.”
Xu did not respond immediately. He studied Barnes, the eyes behind the Coke-bottle glasses slowly traveling across the American’s face. The statement, Barnes knew, had been calculated. Those closest to him knew of his famous temper, and he suspected Xu was testing him. If this was how they were going to play, Barnes thought, it was going to be a long night.
Mercy didn’t stop her car until the bumper was touching the agent’s knees. She got out as the man in the dark suit came around to the front of her car, his hand held up, palm out.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, “but the museum is closed this evening for a private affair.”
“I know. I called,” she said, holding up the badge she’d reacquired. “Detective Bennet. I need to talk to whoever is in charge.”
The agent kept his hand upheld and turned to mutter into his microphone. After listening, he nodded and turned back to Mercy. “They got your call up the hill, ma’am. I’ll take you up there, but you’ll have to leave the car. This way.”
The agent motioned her toward the white stucco building, the station for the tram. Several more agents were there; they checked Mercy’s ID again, and then allowed her onto the tram.
“Hurry, please,” Mercy said. “This is urgent.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the agent said. The tram hummed up the hill to the Vanderbilt Complex, but it moved with interminable slowness. Mercy was sure she could have walked it faster. At last they came to the top, where the tram ended next to a set of acre-wide, shallow steps made of travertine that led up to the massive double doors of the Vanderbilt. Two more agents were trotting down the steps. One in the lead held his hand out to Mercy, who shook it quickly.
“Adam Carter, Agent in Charge,” said the man. “What’s this all about?”
“I told you over the phone,” she said. “There’s a—”
“—plot against the President, yes, you said that. What is this about a virus?”
Mercy repeated what she had relayed on the drive over. “There’s an eco-terrorist group that is trying to make
