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Hmm. This sounds like an eminently reasonable assessment. But since it’s coming from Townsend, I’m scared of such deep concern and cold logic.

He speaks again. “I will be following your flight, and I will see to it that even if this Ambrose monster launches an attack, he will be destroyed before he can do harm.”

This confrontation could go on and on. Right now—whether Townsend is to be trusted or not—I must begin the search for Maddy.

“I think it’s time for me to get started,” I say. “I’ve got to first pick up my team and, of course, Margo.”

He smiles and speaks.

“Ah, of course, the lovely Margo, your elegant paramour. I hope to spend some quality time with her one of these days.”

My elegant paramour? That word, coming from Townsend, sounds vulgar and dirty. I am sure that’s why he phrased it that way, purposely ignoring the fact that she’s my wife. My blood is boiling.

Townsend presses a button on his computer, and within seconds, two armed security guards enter the room.

“These gentlemen will escort you to the aircraft,” Townsend says. “I sincerely hope that you are pleased with this situation.”

“I guess I don’t have much choice,” I say.

Townsend’s smile cannot mask his pleasure at holding my fate in his hands.

“Good luck,” he says.

Should I say “I’ll need it”? Should I say “Thank you”?

I decide to say nothing. The security guards and I head out.

CHAPTER 91

I TRY VERY hard to convince myself that the flight to Dubai will be very safe, very fast, and completely uneventful. On the other hand, maybe I’m just a fool who’s swallowed a bunch of lies and bullshit from Townsend.

Our escort to the vehicle explains what I already knew, that in government air transports these days, all control is accomplished by self-piloting, with monitoring and mechanical observation performed from the ground.

What about the inside of the vehicle? Margo describes it as “techno-luxurious,” which, as you might guess, means that it is a flying big shot’s office, glistening with steel and bronze, sofas and chairs of rich black leather. The rest of the interior? Panels of video screens with endless buttons and levers and handles and knobs.

Our official escorts head for the plane’s exit door. They bid us safe travels and much success. We buckle ourselves in, and—I must be honest—upon hearing the access door shut and lock, I feel nothing but fear in my chest andstomach. My shoulders tremble slightly; my palms sweat. I am somewhat calmed by the takeoff and ascent—so smooth and quiet that I can barely perceive that we are moving.

So here we are. No Townsend. No Townsend emissary. No assistant. No escort. Not even a pilot. But, of course, we know that we’re not really alone. We are aware that everything we do or say is being listened to and watched by Townsend and his subordinates. I can imagine the bevy of government agents scanning video screens while cross-referencing statistical information about us on additional computers. It is probably safe enough to discuss our plans for our search for Maddy when we actually arrive in Dubai.

But before we have that discussion, I speak… not to my colleagues but to the room, to the air.

“I know you are listening, Mr. Townsend. Of course you would be monitoring us and our flight. But I will try to keep my belief in our mutual trust. That trust, as we discussed, is not based on our mutual understanding on how the future of the world should be governed… oh, no. That trust is based on our mutual understanding that there must actuallybea future world.”

Then I stop talking. Perhaps there will be a voice response from the earth below.

Nothing. Just the barely perceptible hum from the air vehicle’s engine.

“Let us begin,” I say to my team. “We must assume thatthey’ve heard us, and we must also assume that we are all on the same side. At least temporarily.”

At precisely that moment, Burbank, to get our attention, waves his right arm and unbuckles his safety belt. He walks a few feet to one of the many wall panels. He points to something. There, amid an array of illuminated red and yellow buttons, he gently touches a specific button that stands out, a blue button at the very top of the panel.

Margo and I, along with Jericho, Hawkeye, and Tapper, unbuckle and join him. Suspecting that we might be under surveillance by a hidden camera, we feign a casual style, walking calmly about the cabin, taking unhurried turns reading the description next to the blue button. It says:

COUNTERCHEMATTACK

We all remain perfectly silent. We don’t even exchange glances.

Suddenly the blue button begins flashing, not quickly, not alarmingly. But it is the only one of the many illuminated buttons that is blinking.