Chapter Twenty-three

Several miles from the Green Palace, a wizened grey-haired man in a blue blazer worn over white, razor-sharp creased pants and balmorals paced up and down the expansive terrazzo floor of the command center in silence. Gnarled arms folded and gingerly tucked behind his stooped back. His mind shuttered against the low drones of computers and the beehive chatters around him. But otherwise, fixated on other things.

Other things like the closed surveillance footage of the Lusail Arena splashing across the rank of computer screens around him. The conflux of communication—both inbound and outbound—as well as the ongoing strings of investigation into the likely scenarios that might have led to today’s awful events being carried out by half of the room’s occupants. But despite his obvious concerns about these things. The simple fact remains, he wasn’t so much concerned about them as much as he was with one thing in particular:

The intercom mounted on a table somewhere in the room.

This was