It was in this room that the third such war had come perilously close to being declared on numerous occasions in the decades since. Now, Langley feared another ‘close-call’ was on the horizon.
China’s actions could not go ignored or unpunished, yet in so doing, this hornets’ nest would only get stirred up even further.
Demands were shouted out by indignant representatives, calling for vetoes on Chinese trade, cuts to aid, the withdrawing of loans from the World Bank. Some even called for China’s expulsion from its permanent seat on the council, citing its appalling human rights record as further evidence for such a drastic action.
But Alex Langley was a firm believer in the old adage about keeping one’s friends close, one’s enemies closer.
China was one of the ‘Big Five’, the only five countries who had a permanent seat on the Security Council, alongside Great Britain, France, Russia and the United States. It was also one of the world’s fastest growing economies and had the potential to one day become the world’s second superpower alongside the United States. At least, as part of the Security Council, America and the U.N. could keep a close eye on them.
But, for now, the arguments which had slipped into a slanging match were getting off track. The current Security Council President, the representative from France, had been unable to reign in the uncontrolled outbursts for the last three minutes. Now, voices carried across the room, angrily shouting at one another, some in support of China, others strongly against. The president struggled to make his high pitched voice heard over the clamour and failed miserably to restore order.
Alex Langley had the Security Council members exactly where he wanted them.
“Mister President!” he called out, his voice calm, smooth and confident. Those around him heard his words and quietened slightly. It had a knock-on effect. Only a very few of the most experienced, and foolhardy, ambassadors dared to go it against this U.S. representative.
Coming from a military background, with no history of diplomacy or politics behind him, Langley’s appointment to the post two years ago had been a shock to all. Many had laughed at his inexperience. All who had done so had come to regret it.
“Mister President,” he said again, his voice ever-so-slightly louder, carrying above the few muted debates that continued.
“Mister President,” he said one last time, his tone, despite its calm, challenging anyone to dare talk over him. All fell silent now, every pair of eyes watching Langley’s commanding figure.
“If I may suggest Mister President,” he began, looking directly at the Frenchman. “While no doubt China’s actions deserve some form of reprimand,” Chal Chan tried to speak up but Langley carried on as if he had not heard. “Currently, it should not be the Council’s top priority. This emergency session was called to examine and evaluate the security risk represented by the source of the tachyon radiation, and to determine the best possible way of securing and if needs be, nullifying said threat.”
The President, a balding man who struggled to be five foot three, peered nervously through mousy eyes hidden behind crescent-moon spectacles. Langley expertly hijacked control of the proceedings.
“You may continue, Mister Langley.”
Langley smiled, as though he needed permission. “As we have all been briefed,” he began, removing his own reading glasses so that they dangled from a cord around his neck, and stepping onto the main floor of the chamber. The large, circular tables surrounded him and he slowly turned to encompass all involved. “The source of the radiation is actually a deity carving, a…” he consulted the notes he held in his hand, peering through his glasses then dropping them to his chest again. “A Moon Mask,” he read.
He looked through his glasses at his notes again. In fact, there was no need to. He had memorized the entire document.
He was nothing if not a showman.
He had also taken the liberty of speaking to Doctor Benjamin King, after reading all the material he could on his and his father’s theories.
“Based on the mythological name, Xibalba, the archaeologist who discovered the city where the mask was found believes that it may have been constructed by an ancient race of seafarers, people he calls the…” Again, he checked his notes. “The Progenitors. And that these Progenitors, these early civilisers of mankind, divided up the Moon Mask into several pieces because they knew the power it contained should not be controlled by any one person, or nation.” He looked pointedly at the Chinese delegation.
“This is all irrelevant,” the Russian ambassador spoke up. Langley talked over him.
“There is nothing irrelevant about it, Mister Ambassador. Doctor King’s theory has, by his own discoveries, been validated enough for me to believe it whole-heartedly. I’m no historian. I don’t claim to understand half of what the man told me in his interview. But I trust what he said. That some ancient race divided up the mask. Millennia later, a descendant of that race tried, and almost succeeded in finding all the pieces. Now, we have one piece, but the rest of it is out there somewhere.”
Again, he directed his gaze to the Chinese. “I would hope we have all learned from the events of the last days and can trust our respective countries to work together. But, need I remind you that another group of as yet unidentified persons is also after the mask. They know it exists now. And it won’t be long before every terrorist cell, religious fanatic and international black-market arms-dealer tries to find the rest of it.”
“What are you proposing?” the British ambassador asked.
“I would have thought that would be obvious,” he stated. Perhaps it was his military background that made it obvious to him. Out in the field, he couldn’t afford to second-guess every decision, to sit down and discuss every scenario or to rely on others to make the uncomfortable suggestions, all in the name of politics.
He wasn’t a talker. He was a man of action. And right now, it was action that the Security Council, indeed, the world, needed.
He spelt it out for them.
“We need to find the rest of the mask.”
Several murmurs drifted from the mouths of the delegates.
“And how do we go about doing that?” the German representative asked. “It says here,” he held up the same briefing Langley had memorised, “that, if this Doctor… King is correct, then the mask was scattered across the known world thousands of years ago. How do we possibly begin looking for it?”
“That’s just the thing, Ambassador,” he grinned. “We don’t have to. Because, someone already found it for us.”
“My name is Alexander Langley,” the grandfatherly-looking man had introduced himself as. Grandfatherly or not, however, Benjamin King felt the uncontrollable urge to punch him.
His frustration had been building since the moment the American soldiers had found him in the Venezuelan jungle and taken Raine into custody. He wasn’t sure how he felt about their rough handling of the other man. On the one hand, Nathan Raine had saved not only his life, but also prevented the Moon Mask from falling into the hands of the Chinese and the unidentified soldiers in black. On the other hand, however, he had also taken him hostage at gunpoint — never the best way to endear oneself to another.
He hadn’t seen Raine again since the helicopter had ferried them back to the summit of Sarisariñama. There, just like the rest of the expedition, he had been led behind a privacy screen that had been set up, stripped naked and forced to stand in what amounted to little more than a paddling pool while he was hosed down and scoured with rough brushes to clean his irradiated skin.