"He says he's from the Times."
"The devil he is."
"Who are you?" the guard asked Alan.
For answer, Alan shoved him out of the way and plunged inside the building. His feet pounded a loud tattoo on the polished marble floor as he sprinted down the corridor. There were shouts and the pounding of more feet behind him. He followed an arrow which pointed straight ahead above the words PRESS ROOM. He climbed a broad marble staircase. The voices were louder behind him, the click-clacking feet closer.
Breathing harshly, he charged through the doorway to the press gallery. He stopped in his tracks.
The International Security Council was assembled in special session, ready to meet the reporters and their questions. Alan recognized the faces, the gaunt, weary but somehow intensely warm features of President Holland, the other faces, all grave and tired, about the horseshoe-shaped table.
The guards sprinted up behind Alan, pinning his arms to his sides.
The Secretary General of the International Security Council, seated at President Holland's right, looked up and said, "What is the trouble here?"
"Begging your pardon, sir," the first guard explained, "this man has no proper identification."
President Holland glanced up at Alan, the deep-set eyes studying him. "I've seen that face before," he said. "I don't know where, but I'm sure I've seen him."