"Sliced his wrists."
Murdock? That pudgy little kettledrum of a man? The guy we used to tease until he'd throw a tantrum? Clowns don't slice their wrists. It can't be for real!
"But why?" Kinsman asked.
Colt's voice was barely audible. "I guess they were looking for a scapegoat. They were going to investigate, court-martial him."
"Oh for God's sake!" The bastards. Kicking the weakest one. I should have known. I should have known. "Did he leave a note or anything?"
"A taped message. It was addressed to you. The commu- nications people just got to it this afternoon—they been swamped and this had no priority at all."
"Addressed to me?" Kinsman felt his insides going hollow.
"I burned it," Colt said. "You don't want to hear it."
"What did it say?"
"It was shitty."
"What did it say?"
Colt took a breath. "He said, Thanks for everything, Kinsman. This is the reward I get for covering up your murder of that Russian girl. I should have crucified you when I had the chance,'"
Thursday 23 December 1999:
1400 hrs UT
IT WAS 9 A.M. in New York. Ted Marrett paced impatiently past the floor-to-ceiling windows of the plushly carpeted office, high in the UN's Secretariat Building. A sleety rain pelted the windows; across the turgid, oily East River, Brooklyn and Queens were only a gray smear.
"You're going to wear out your boots," said Beleg Jamsuren. He was sitting placidly in a leather easy chair, his round, flat Mongol face a picture of stoic calm. He was a young man who carried his formidable name easily, as confidently as if he were an ancient warrior atop a shaggy Gobi pony wearing padded armor and a steel helmet with a short bow strung over his shoulder. Instead he was a bright young scientist, and he wore a plain brown business suit.
"Better than wearing out the seat of my pants," Marrett growled. He was in denims and a tweed sports jacket, puffing hard on the stump of a cigar clamped between his teeth.
Jamsuren silently thanked the gods for the ventilation system that sucked up the fetid cigar smoke. "He said he would see you shortly after nine."
"That's what it is now." Marrett tapped his wristwatch. "Shortly after nine. Where is he?"
"He does have a few other responsibilities."
"Nothing as important as this! Holy hell, we've been trying to see him for four solid days."
"The Secretary General doesn't often make time to see a couple of lowly UNESCO scientists. His schedule is arranged . . ."
Marrett wheeled toward the Mongol. "Don't give me that humble Oriental crap! I know you better. You're just as worked up about this as I am."
Jamsuren allowed himself a smile. "Perhaps I did use my 496 consanguinity with the Mongolian ambassador to further our cause."
"Youbetcha."
