Amara looked, for one moment, at the far end of the table, at Kalian, who was already rising from his chair with the unhurried ease of someone who had somewhere far better to be, at Claire, who was gathering her bag with the deliberate calm of an exit rehearsed in advance and she felt something move through her that was not grief and was not rage and was not despair.
It was the specific, clarifying, ice-cold understanding of someone who had finally, fully, completely grasped the shape of the enemy they were fighting.
Julian said nothing to the press. Not a single word of confirmation or denial.
The cameras kept flashing.
The journalists kept shouting.
And at the far end of the room, Kalian and Claire looked back at him.
Just once.
He found Julian's eyes across the crowded, flashing, shouting room.
And he smiled.
