SONOR BREECE REVIEWED the surveillance clip for the third time. The resolution was excellent, but the angle from the drone was not ideal. He ran one finger down the curve of his prominent nose and tapped his lips. On one side of his office, right in front of the window, a trio of king parrots squawked incessantly.
At first, he considered whether this was something the world president even needed to see. Most surveillance videos were routine, showing the endless procession of curiosity-seekers trying to get a glimpse of the Residence, or of Gismonde himself. There was the occasional protestor, quickly disposed of. At times, groups of small children would walk up to peek through the gates. Depending on their mood, the guards might toss them candy or knock them away with the butts of their rifles. It was the responsibility of the local police to keep disturbances away from the Residence gates, and the officers had done their job.
But something in the frantic reactions at the end of this incident had caught Breece’s attention. This was not a neat cleanup. At the very least, it would be a point of discussion, and besides, it would give Breece some valuable face time with his mentor.
He took the vid-card and walked down the short hallway from his office to Gismonde’s reception area. Several ministers waited nervously in straight-backed chairs. A menacing guard, the largest in the residential detail, stood squarely in front of Gismonde’s double doors. But at the sight of Breece, he immediately lowered his head and stepped aside. Breece brushed past him and pushed the doors open.
“Mr. World President,” he said. “I have something you may find interesting.”
Gismonde did not look up. He was busy reviewing a sheaf of plans and figures on his ornate desk. He gestured toward a conversation area, where a computer sat on a low wooden table between a pair of leather-covered sofas. Breece walked over and tapped the vid-card against the screen. The computer blinked to life, with the video already in motion. Breece let it run, then froze it just at the point where a man in a vintage tuxedo stepped out of a luxury sedan. The man’s wardrobe had caught his attention instantly. Nobody dressed like that. Not in this century.
Breece hadn’t heard Gismonde get up from his desk, but now he was looming over him, inches from his neck.
“What’s this?” asked the world president.
“A disturbance near the perimeter earlier today,” said Breece. “Probably nothing. But it’s a bit out of the usual.”
Gismonde watched intently as the video played.
“Field in,” he ordered.
Breece magnified the image. The man in the tux seemed to be defying the guards. Brave? Stupid? A decoy?
“Freeze it,” said Gismonde.
Breece tapped again. The man’s face filled the screen.
Gismonde exhaled slowly and folded his arms across his chest.
“Lamont Cranston,” he said. There was a touch of admiration in his voice.
“Is he on the list?” asked Breece. All known agitators were.
“No, he wouldn’t be,” said Gismonde. “He hasn’t been in the city for a very long time.”
Gismonde was silent for a few moments. Breece, as always, was eager for orders.
“Shall we…”
“Find him,” said Gismonde finally. “Eliminate him.”
“Of course,” said Breece. It was exactly the kind of order he lived for. He slipped the vid-card into his pocket and turned toward the door.
“Mr. Breece.” Gismonde called out to stop him.
“Sir?”
“Be thorough,” Gismonde said. “Mr. Cranston has a way of not staying dead.”