It was the public gateway to the United Nations Headquarters, the north face of the General Assembly Building.
The GA Building’s tasteless vertical stripes of marble and glass struck her as a hideous amalgam of Greek and Asshole, but that’s what you get when you try to please all of the countries all of the time. Beyond it to the south, the Secretariat Building, a monolithic steel domino, blocked New York’s view of the East River and beyond. Not that there was much to see in Queens.
As flocks of pedestrians crisscrossed the promenade, she read the front-page story of The New York Times on her BlackBerry. The headline was priceless: “Who let the dogs out?”
If only they were dogs.
After the incident at Bellevue, fourteen animal attacks had been reported. Four dead, and at least three dozen injuries.
Christ, you’d think a couple more of them would’ve had the decency to die.
So there would be at least three dozen werewolves tonight—and how many unaccounted for?
On New Year’s Fucking—
“Special Agent… Tilda’s coe?”
Here was her State Department contact, an Ivy League pimple popper in his daddy’s suit, trying to look important between long hours of fetching coffee and opening mail. His shifty eyes said he’d prefer buying women to charming them.
“Til- das -cow,” she warned him. “Like ‘kill jazz now.’”
“Ah. So do you hate jazz?”
“No. I hate my name being mispronounced.”
She ignored his name and used the remnants of her sandwich to avoid shaking his hand. Since he was in no rush, she led him through the makeshift security tent and into the lobby of the General Assembly Building, a cavernous, echo-filled circus populated with self-important people looking at self-important artwork. A wide marble stairwell began to their right and made a dramatic and highly impractical U-turn, becoming a swash of green that arced above the hall to crash into the lowest of three white cantilevered balconies. If that said something about diplomacy, it was over the head of this Ugly American.
Just beyond the metal detectors, where the guards made a big show of taking her gun, she and her gofer of state were greeted by a stolid member of the UN’s Department of Safety & Security. He escorted them underneath the balcony and through a secure door.
They took a flight of stairs down into a nexus of underground tunnels spanning the entire United Nations complex. Among the federal government, this facility was described in nigh-mythic terms. The UN’s security measures were necessarily highly secretive, but legend had it that there might not be a safer place in the world than the long-term doomsday shelter underneath the UN: If a nuclear bomb dropped right on top of the plaza, partygoers in the basement would barely feel the shake. She thought it was an absurd breach of security that they had such a facility hidden beneath American soil, but the rules weren’t hers to make.
The UN security hub was a sprawling, curved theater reminiscent of the General Assembly Hall. Packed with state-of-the-art tech, this was one of the few real-life government rooms that looked the way they’d imagine it in the movies. A computer-generated map of the world occupied the focal point in place of the podium, glittering with diplomatic conditions, situations and ops data. A network of monitors on the left curved wall displayed profiles of specific diplomats, probably those staying on site. At the back of the theater, where Tildascow had entered, an electronic board detailed security schedules and shift commanders. Leave it to the UN to use an LED monitor where a white board would work better.
“Special Agent Tildascow, I’m Daniel Milano, Chief of Desk for Security Coordination.” He extended a firm, no-nonsense handshake.
“Good to meet you,” she said. He couldn’t see it, but she was casing the dual-door weapon caches stationed between each of the room’s four entrances. Handprint locks, smart
The GA Building’s tasteless vertical stripes of marble and glass struck her as a hideous amalgam of Greek and Asshole, but that’s what you get when you try to please all of the countries all of the time. Beyond it to the south, the Secretariat Building, a monolithic steel domino, blocked New York’s view of the East River and beyond. Not that there was much to see in Queens.
As flocks of pedestrians crisscrossed the promenade, she read the front-page story of The New York Times on her BlackBerry. The headline was priceless: “Who let the dogs out?”
If only they were dogs.
After the incident at Bellevue, fourteen animal attacks had been reported. Four dead, and at least three dozen injuries.
Christ, you’d think a couple more of them would’ve had the decency to die.
So there would be at least three dozen werewolves tonight—and how many unaccounted for?
On New Year’s Fucking—
“Special Agent… Tilda’s coe?”
Here was her State Department contact, an Ivy League pimple popper in his daddy’s suit, trying to look important between long hours of fetching coffee and opening mail. His shifty eyes said he’d prefer buying women to charming them.
“Til- das -cow,” she warned him. “Like ‘kill jazz now.’”
“Ah. So do you hate jazz?”
“No. I hate my name being mispronounced.”
She ignored his name and used the remnants of her sandwich to avoid shaking his hand. Since he was in no rush, she led him through the makeshift security tent and into the lobby of the General Assembly Building, a cavernous, echo-filled circus populated with self-important people looking at self-important artwork. A wide marble stairwell began to their right and made a dramatic and highly impractical U-turn, becoming a swash of green that arced above the hall to crash into the lowest of three white cantilevered balconies. If that said something about diplomacy, it was over the head of this Ugly American.
Just beyond the metal detectors, where the guards made a big show of taking her gun, she and her gofer of state were greeted by a stolid member of the UN’s Department of Safety & Security. He escorted them underneath the balcony and through a secure door.
They took a flight of stairs down into a nexus of underground tunnels spanning the entire United Nations complex. Among the federal government, this facility was described in nigh-mythic terms. The UN’s security measures were necessarily highly secretive, but legend had it that there might not be a safer place in the world than the long-term doomsday shelter underneath the UN: If a nuclear bomb dropped right on top of the plaza, partygoers in the basement would barely feel the shake. She thought it was an absurd breach of security that they had such a facility hidden beneath American soil, but the rules weren’t hers to make.
The UN security hub was a sprawling, curved theater reminiscent of the General Assembly Hall. Packed with state-of-the-art tech, this was one of the few real-life government rooms that looked the way they’d imagine it in the movies. A computer-generated map of the world occupied the focal point in place of the podium, glittering with diplomatic conditions, situations and ops data. A network of monitors on the left curved wall displayed profiles of specific diplomats, probably those staying on site. At the back of the theater, where Tildascow had entered, an electronic board detailed security schedules and shift commanders. Leave it to the UN to use an LED monitor where a white board would work better.
“Special Agent Tildascow, I’m Daniel Milano, Chief of Desk for Security Coordination.” He extended a firm, no-nonsense handshake.
“Good to meet you,” she said. He couldn’t see it, but she was casing the dual-door weapon caches stationed between each of the room’s four entrances. Handprint locks, smart
Similar Books
