GISMONDE STOOD COMPLETELY still and let the room absorb his presence. He understood that silence was often the ultimate power play. It made the ministers around the table feel anxious, uncomfortable, off-balance—exactly how he wanted them. At the point where it felt natural to speak, Gismonde held back and let the silence hang a bit longer. He looked from face to face, causing little stings of worry as he went, making each attendee think about possible offenses—a political indiscretion, an unfulfilled promise, a careless alliance.
At Gismonde’s first sentence—a soft, simple “I am honored by your presence”—the whole room eased a little. “Please, sit,” he continued. The ministers quickly lowered themselves and pulled their chairs up to the table. They sat like attentive schoolchildren, hands on their laps or clasped tightly on the edge of the table.
Gismonde had no need for notes. His message was simple, his thoughts clear and well organized. He spoke slowly and deliberately, letting each phrase sink in before moving on to the next. A total master.
“My friends, I think we can agree that our problem—our collective problem—is intensifying around the world. You need only to look outside these very walls for the evidence. The breeding rate has not decreased, in spite of severe austerity measures. Or perhaps because of them. After all, what else is left for these people to do?”
Gismonde’s lifted eyebrow telegraphed his little witticism, and Breece’s smile gave the others permission to titter. But not too much.
“As the masses grow,” Gismonde continued, “so does the threat. Tonight, we sit in privilege, as did the Qin dynasty, the French Court, the Russian czars. Unassailable. Or so they thought. Until—one after the other—they awoke to the sound of the rabble at their gates.”
Watching from the balcony, Maddy felt the heat rising in her invisible cheeks. Her hands gripped the balcony rail tighter. Pompous bastard! she thought. She looked over at Lamont. His eyes were locked on Gismonde.
The world president’s voice was smooth and evenly modulated. But now it began to build in urgency, even as he lowered his volume. An effective technique. The ministers around the table leaned in.
“Tonight,” he said, “the people who contribute to the progress of the world must find the strength to move against those who add nothing. If we do not act soon, we may not have time to act at all. Those of us in this room must decide—and the moment has come. We have the method. Do we have the nerve?”
Silent nods of support all around the table.
“What’s he talking about?” whispered Maddy.
“Murder,” Lamont whispered back. “Mass murder.”
Maddy had a long history of problems with authority figures. But until now, she had never been face-to-face with pure evil. It radiated like palpable, dark energy from Gismonde’s smooth, attractive face. As Maddy listened, her anger escalated. Her grip on the balcony rail tightened and her whole body stiffened. She felt herself losing focus. She wanted to yell something, throw something, do something!
“Mr. Breece,” Gismonde continued, “will now discuss the particulars of the…” He stopped in midsentence and looked up at the balcony. Where there had been only empty space, he now saw a flicker. The faint outline of a female figure. Gismonde turned toward the hall, his voice now loud and commanding.
“Guards!”