He breathed in spurts, hyperventilating, his body tense with fright, his knife hand trembling badly. The blade’s sharp ceramic edge bit into the senator’s neck. A thin line of blood trickled down her throat. His free hand stroked her neck, scratching the soft skin, and then crept down to grasp the cord tied to the hidden belt of explosives ringing his waist.

Senator Dixon twisted her head sideways, trying to escape the knife’s edge.

“Please…” she cried softly. She shivered uncontrollably. “Just let me go, I’m begging you … please.”

He turned his angular face away from her. With wide eyes, he stared at the cringing people all around him slowly backing away, their hands raised in surrender. His attention became riveted on the commotion from the rear as men and women alike fought each other trying to bolt the lobby. His face flushed hotly; his breathing became labored.

Senator Dixon weighed whether she should stomp the spike of her heel down hard on his foot, giving him blinding pain for a few seconds and then run for it, but panic kept her paralyzed. His hands were damp and cold. The knife cut deeper.

“Please, someone, help! Help me!”

The crowd stared back in dumb amazement.

Someone yelled, pointing at the explosives peeking from beneath the man’s jacket.

“He’s got a bomb!”

Screams filled the air as the throng made a renewed mad dash for the only available exit, but it was nearly blocked by body scanners and x-ray machines, the other exits having been sealed off for security reasons.

Fighting their way in against the tide of people, police rushed into the rotunda. Their guns drawn, they surrounded victim and assailant, now isolated in the middle of the lobby. Those who couldn’t get out or who fell in the initial stampede cowered and hugged the walls, setting off alarms as they got too close to the paintings and statues.

One of the policemen motioned to the others to lower their guns. They did so exceedingly slowly, their eyes never leaving the attacker.

“C’mon, buddy, just tell us what you want, we can work it out, you know?” the policeman said, shouting over the alarms. “We all been in tough spots before, it can’t be that bad. I was your age once, I know what it’s like, you know? Let’s just talk it out and calm down, okay? Hey, kid, I’m Rick. Rick Fisher. What’s your name?”

“My name — my name — B-Babur. Babur.”

Babur looked as if he were about to cry, his voice barely audible over the alarms. With his body shuddering in waves, his hands clenched the knife and cord tighter. Senator Dixon twisted sideways even more, trying to escape the sharp edge pressing into her throat. The pain seared. She felt herself growing nauseous and faint.

“Good, that’s real nice, Baba, real nice. Hey, Baba, where you from?”

“Bah-boor. Bah-boor, acehole!”

Babur’s body stiffened with rage. Breathing rapidly, he hugged his captive closer.

“Hey, Barber, you know what? I gotta son your age, you know that?”

Babur glared at Fisher.

“Turn the fuckin’ alarms off!” Fisher yelled in a flash of anger. “I can’t fuckin’ hear myself think!”

Fisher turned back to Babur, apologetic.

“Sorry, son, it’s just that you remind me so much a’ him; I got a picture right here, you wanna see?”

“Shut the hell up! You — you will stay back! I kill this slut and everybody I also kill unless you—”

The explosives erupted in a staccato series of deafening blasts around Babur’s waist, blowing out the windows and scorching the sandstone walls, taking with them centuries of art treasures. Twisted bodies and human fragments littered the bloody lobby. A woman’s arm lay on the floor, still clutching a remnant of her purse. A man and woman lay in a death embrace, their bodies ripped with the nails and glass Babur had used for shrapnel.