“They just changed plans,” he said. “Mr. Jablonski told the cars to meet them on the street at the back.”
“On the street? That makes no sense.”
The marshal shrugged.
“Somebody tried to kill him this morning,” said Mara. “He has to be protected.”
“The whole area’s sealed off,” said the marshal.
“You can’t think this is a good idea.”
“What do you want me to tell you? I’m just following orders. There’s tons of security around, ma’am. Tons.”
Mara hated when anyone called her ma’am.
“Just take me to wherever the hell they are.”
The marshal turned and walked across the smooth concrete of the underground parking garage. A few hours before, the place had been swarming with Secret Service men, some of them armed with submachine guns. But that was mostly because the President was here. Now the only security people she could spot were a pair of New York City policemen standing at the far end of garage, near the ramp to street level.
But maybe that made sense. The Chinese wouldn’t kill Josh now; that would just prove his point. They would create a martyr.
She followed the marshal back up the stairs to the first floor, then out into the main lobby. There were a dozen photographers and several video crews crowded near the door. They glanced in her direction, then realized she was nobody and went back to waiting, hoping to get a look at Josh as he left.
The marshal led her through the throng to a section of roped-off elevators. They went up a flight, then out and across the hall to a staircase at the back of the building. These led to the long hallway flanking the General Assembly Chamber. Television lights flooded the space, glaring off the art displayed along the temporary wall at Mara’s left. Diplomats were clustered at the far end, listening to someone give an impromptu news interview.
It was Josh. His voice, soft, tired, echoed through the hall. He was talking about Vietnam, what he had seen there.
As Mara approached the back of the crowd, it began to move. A uniformed security guard glanced at her as she approached, then turned back, spotting the UN VIP identification tag hanging around her neck. Mara followed along, not wanting to draw any attention to herself.
The procession grew as they pushed outside, swelling as reporters who’d missed the impromptu interview inside realized from the commotion that they would have another chance. A few shouted questions from the side. Mara spotted Jablonski guiding Josh around the side of the building, toward a pair of Lincoln town cars. A line of NYPD officers blocked the cars from the rest of the lot; as the reporters realized they were about to be cut off, they swarmed around, temporarily blocking the way.
Josh stopped and raised his hands.
“All right, I’ll take questions. Whatever you want.” His voice was hoarse. It sounded as tired as the first night she’d found him in Vietnam.
“We only have a few minutes,” said Jablonski. Mara couldn’t quite see his head through the crowd. “Then Mr. MacArthur has to brief Congressman Joyce. I’m sure you understand.”
The reporters started asking questions, the same ones Josh had been fielding for hours:
He answered wearily, but patiently. His answers were getting shorter and shorter.
Poor guy, thought Mara. He was exhausted. Couldn’t they see that?
Mara sidled around the edge of the crowd, moving to position herself closer to the line of policemen, trying to catch Jablonski’s eye. Her escort had disappeared.
The back door of the second town car opened. A tall, thin man with slicked-back gray hair unfolded himself from the interior, popping up like the inside of birthday card. He had his jacket off, white shirtsleeves rolled up, and tie fluttering in the wind as he strode forward.
He was a congressman or some other politician, Mara realized. One more episode in Jablonski’s dog-and- pony show, designed to please friends and to influence enemies.
She slipped behind a cameraman, pushing gently toward Josh and Jablonski. But the policemen nearest her pivoted, forming a wedge as the congressman approached. They were in her way.
Deciding it would be easier to go around to the other side of the scrum, Mara backed out, squeezing between two latecomers. Walking along the edge of the crowd, she looked for the marshal who’d accompanied her earlier. There were a few people standing around, employees she guessed, watching the proceedings. One or two smoked cigarettes.
A silver Lexus LX 470 pulled up near the entrance. Someone got out — a young Asian woman. She was dressed in a flower-print pink skirt, knee-length, with a tightly tailored business jacket. Her long hair was tied at the back. She wore glasses, but these softened her features, making her look interested rather than studious.
She waved her credentials at one of the police officers, and gestured back toward the main security post by the street. Meanwhile a young man in jeans and a blue blazer got out of the other side of the car, from the front seat, and hustled after her, carrying a video camera. The policeman waved her past.
Mara looked at the car. The windows were blacked out. What television news service drove around in a Lexus?
“We don’t need hearings,” muttered Josh.
Jablonski poked him gently in the ribs.
“What about hearings?” asked one of the reporters nearby.
“He said they need them,” said another.
“We don’t need them. The Chinese need to stop their attacks,” said Josh in frustration.
The congressman turned to glare at him. For a just a moment his eyes narrowed into daggers. Josh wouldn’t have been surprised if a laser beam shot from them and burned away his tongue. He didn’t care.
“Our scientist friend is right,” said the congressman, the glare replaced by a fresh smile. “Action. Hopefully my colleagues in Congress will see it that way. Now, come on, I know you have several appointments. We’ll talk on the way.”
Jablonski took hold of Josh’s arm. Josh looked over the crowd and saw Mara twenty or thirty feet away.
“Mara!” he yelled, resisting Jablonski’s soft pull. “Mara!”
He waved. Jablonski stopped.
“It’s Mara,” Josh told him.
Jablonski turned to one of the marshals. The marshal nodded, then went to get Mara. She was already walking toward them.
“You are a liar, Mr. MacArthur!” shouted a voice from the crowd. “I don’t know how you sleep at night!”
Josh stopped short. The accusation felt like a physical blow to the back of his neck.
“What? What?”
“Those photos we see — aren’t they made up?”
Josh couldn’t see the woman who was making the accusation. Where was she?
“Why would I make that up?” said Josh. He wasn’t even sure who he was answering.
The reporters nearest Josh stepped aside to reveal a young Asian-looking woman with glasses — the one Mara had seen getting out of the car. She had a pad in her hand; her videographer was filming over her shoulder.
“Where did you get the photos?” the woman asked.
