their missions."
Anna glimpsed vast libraries of files as they swept past. On some of them were names she had seen from her own investigations, but many
were unknown to her. "We have to get a drop on them," she said, thinking aloud. "We need to know the name of their next target before they
attack it."
"Exactly," agreed Lebedev. "Find us a face and a name," he told D-Bar.
"Look for something connected to an operative named Yelena Federova, code name 'Red.'" Saxon pointed at the display. "She was deployed
separately from the rest of the Tyrants. That has to mean something."
Anna tensed with a moment of memory. "I think ... she was the one who tried to murder me."
"Likely," Saxon agreed, with a grim nod. "She enjoys the close-up work."
"Got something," D-Bar announced. On the screen, a single blue-haloed file moved to fill the image. The image seemed grainy and hazed.
"Parity is starting to drop quicker than I expected. Better make this fast."
Powell stepped closer to read the data presented before them. "Operative ident 'Red' tasked to shadow target-designate 'Alpha,' " he read
aloud. "Action: terminate with extreme prejudice."
"That's it," said Lebedev. "But who is Alpha?"
"Gimme a second..." D-Bar typed in a few commands, and on a tertiary screen a new image appeared; a publicity still of a man in his sixties,
with gray hair and glasses. He wore a dark suit and an expression of patrician earnestness, both of which were impeccably tailored.
Anna had seen him before, from a skybox balcony in downtown Washington. "That's William Taggart. He's the founder of the Humanity Front."
Saxon raised an eyebrow. "What, that anti-augmentation bunch? The ones always whining about 'science gone too far'?"
"Why would the Tyrants be targeting him?" She turned to Lebedev. "He wants the same thing as the ones holding their leashes! Restriction
and regulation of human augmentation technology. Why kill him?"
"More important," Powell broke in, "why haven't they done it already?" He glanced at Saxon. "This Federova woman. If she's already
shadowing Taggart, could she ice him?"
He nodded. "In a heartbeat. She's a phantom. Could make it look like natural death and no one would ever know she'd been there."
Anna saw something on Saxon's face as he said the words. "What is it?"
"Powell's got a good point. If Taggart's the next mark, why isn't he a corpse?"
She studied the image for a moment, thinking back to what she recalled from the last series of briefings she'd had at the agency. "Search for a
connection between Taggart and the United Nations," she told D-Bar.
New data unfolded before them. Anna saw images of the Palais des Nations, the foundation and European headquarters of the UN in Geneva.
"There's stuff here from a sealed memo to the Secret Service from the U.S. State Department," said the hacker. "Designating Taggart as a
citizen of note. He's going to be part of the American delegation in a meeting with some of the movers and shakers at the UN."
"The vote," Lebedev muttered. "Taggart's going to the United Nations to spearhead the push for a ballot on augmentation control."
Saxon gave a dry chuckle. "Huh. Oh, yeah, now I get it. Makes sense." He glanced at Anna. "You want to know why Taggart is still breathing?
Because they don't want to kill him quietlike. They want to do it out in the open, in front of people. They want an event."
"The founder of the Humanity Front, murdered by an augmented killer in full view of the global media, on the steps of the Palais des Nations
..." Powell shook his head. "Can you imagine the fallout from that? Taggart becomes a martyr to his cause. His organization already has a lot of
momentum. They lead the charge and do the work of the Illuminati for them. It's brilliant."
"Who?" Saxon asked, catching on the word, but Lebedev spoke over him.
"It's what they do. They find others and manipulate them into following their agenda." He frowned. "How long until Taggart arrives in
Geneva?"
"His flight lands in Switzerland around midday our time," said D-Bar. "According to this, eighteen hours later he's at the UN to give his speech.
We got less than a day before they waste him."
Powell drew himself up. "We've got to stop the kill from going down."
Lebedev nodded. "I'll contact our colleagues in France, get them to mobilize."
"That won't be enough," Powell insisted. "We need to be there. I'll assemble a unit. You get us some transport."
Anna watched the other man mulling it over. "All right," he said after a moment. "It can be done."
Powell gestured toward Saxon. "I want him to come with us."
Saxon snorted. "You trust me now, all of a sudden?"
Powell ignored the question. "He can provide visual identification of any Tyrant operatives."
"Fine by me," grunted the soldier.
Lebedev nodded again. "Agreed." He turned to the hacker. "D-Bar, gather your gear. You're going along as well."
D-Bar's pale face flushed red and he blinked. "What? Why? No!" He shook his head. "I can do this from—"
"No arguments!" insisted Lebedev. "We can't go in without an information warfare specialist. You're always telling me how good you are—now
you can prove it."
D-Bar jabbed a finger at the screens. "What, this wasn't enough for you?"
"Cheer up, son," Saxon offered. "You'll get to see it from the sharp end for a change, yeah?"
Anna listened to the interchange and it was as if she were falling away from it all, being left behind with every passing moment. When she
spoke, the words came of their own accord, without her conscious control. "I'm going, too." Anna searched herself for a good, convincing reason,
but she came up empty. All she could grasp was the distant, undying anger deep in her chest.
Powell shot her a look. "No. We don't need you."
"How about she goes and I stay?" offered D-Bar.
"I have to!" she insisted, with a force that came from nowhere. Anna went on, her voice rising. "I've been chasing the Tyrants for months! I've
thrown away everything—"
"Kelso is right," Saxon broke in abruptly. "She should be part of the team. We can use her."
"How, exactly?" Powell demanded.
Saxon made a look-see gesture. "She saw the faces of the Tyrants. Two sets of eyes, mate." He gave Anna a look that was unreadable. "Right?"
he asked her.
"Right," she repeated. "Yes."
Powell seemed as if he was about to argue, but Saxon gave him a look and tapped his wristwatch. "We don't really have time to waste arguing,
do we?"
"Get the veetol and head for the shore," said Lebedev, ending the debate. "I'll contact you with the details once you're airborne."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cape Charles—Virginia—United States of America
The veetol was an old air-ambulance model stripped to the bare metal, a bulky and ungainly thing like a fat gull borne up on bright thruster
nozzles that spat exhaust from the wingtips. They flew fast and low, following the line of the canal from Baltimore, until the river mouth opened
up before them. Saxon felt it in the pit of his gut as the veetol rose up in a near-vertical ascent, trading altitude for thrust. He made an attempt
to glance out the porthole; along with the Kelso woman and the hacker, Saxon was crammed into the rear of the flyer with Powell and four of his
men from the New Sons. None of them looked like soldiers of any stripe he thought worthy of the name; they had a different air to them, which
reminded him of the feral intensity of the gang kids he'd grown up with on the streets of North London. He pegged them for ex-cons or militia
types. Kelso sat with
her head down, lost in her own thoughts.
D-Bar gave him a smile that was all fake bravado. "What's wrong? Don't like flying?"
Saxon didn't allow himself to dwell on the similarity between this veetol and the one he'd rode into the wilderness six months ago. "Something
like that," he offered. It was a tight fit in here, and he was starting to get tired of it. "Hey, Powell!" He had to shout to the other man to make
himself heard over the roar of the engines.
Powell had the distracted look of someone using a comm implant. He glanced at Saxon but said nothing.
He nodded at the FR-27 rifle slung over the man's chest. "Do I get a weapon?"
"I only give guns to people I trust."
"What are we doing?" Saxon went on. "As cozy as this is, we can't fly to Switzerland in this thing."
Powell smiled thinly, reacting to something only he heard. "Don't sweat it," he called back. "Our ride is here." He jerked his thumb at the
porthole.
For a moment, Saxon couldn't see what he was talking about; then his perception caught up with what he was looking at, and the shape he'd
thought was just another churn of storm clouds took on a different aspect.
From out of the easterly front emerged a massive, elongated ellipse. Lined with fins and stabilators, great hoops hung from its flanks, the
centers of them blurred by the motion of wide, fluted rotor blades. Along the flank of the aircraft he saw a blue-on-blue livery and the name:
LEBEDEV AIRCARGO.
"Whoa!" said D-Bar, crowding in to take a look, "Cargo zep ... Good cover." He trailed off as he thought it through. "But... how are we gonna get
on board?"
Powell was getting to his feet. "Not the easy way."
The veetol's deck dipped and the hull of the airship rose to fill the window. The other men were securing their gear, checking straps and gear
pockets. Kelso met Saxon's gaze with a questioning look and he gave her a shrug as a reply.
D-Bar turned to him, catching on. "He's not serious—"
A red light flashed and along the side of the veetol, a seam opened to peel back a long drop-hatch. Cold air howled into the cargo space and
Saxon felt his gut tighten. He closed his eyes and for a moment he was remembering blackness and the shriek of wind.
The dorsal hull of the airship drifted past below them, a curved stretch of ridged aluminum as wide as a football field. He saw guide rails set into
the metal and thick maintenance cables. The veetol dropped, almost bumping into the hull of the cargo carrier as a gust of wind pulled at the
wings.
Two of Powell's men went first, the gale-force airstream catching them. Before Saxon could stop him, Powell went forward and shouldered D
Bar out through the open hatch. The hacker screamed as he fell, but the men on the hull were there to grab him.
Powell turned on Kelso and shouted, "You should stay behind. Go back with the flyer."
Saxon saw the shift of emotions on her face and she shoved the man out of her way. She dropped from the veetol, a flash of panic on her face—
and then she was down and safe, clinging to the guides.
"You next" Powell ordered.
Saxon frowned and made the drop; it was less than a meter and a half of open air, but a sudden burst of wind shear hit him like a punch in the
gut. He felt his foot touch the curve of the hull and slip out from under. His balance wasn't there and he was falling.
Suddenly, slender but strong fingers were gripping his wrist tightly. It gave him the moment he needed, and Saxon's cyberarm snagged a cable
and held fast. He turned his head to see Kelso holding him steady with no little effort.
Saxon nodded his thanks and scrambled back up the curve of the hull. Powell and the last of his men dropped to the deck as the veetol curved
away, and he led them forward to a windbreak and a hatch set flush with the hull. D-Bar barged his way to the front and made sure he was first
in. The rest of them followed suit. The hatch slammed shut as he dropped into the airship's maintenance bay, cutting out the roaring cold. He
frowned; his face was raw with windburn.
"You okay?" Kelso asked.
He nodded and gestured to his cyberlegs. "It's these new pins. Still working out the gyro synch. Thanks for the assist, though. Hope you didn't
strain anything."
"It was just reflex," she snapped, suddenly terse.
"One suh-skydive without a chute is enough f-for anyone," said D-Bar, fighting back the shivers.
"Can't argue with you there," Saxon replied, with feeling.
"Okay, listen up," Powell ordered. "The zep crew know the drill. They don't ask, we don't tell. The ship'll make a speed-run over the
Greenland-Iceland-UK gap and then on down to Switzerland." He looked at them all in turn. "We need to be ready to go the moment we reach
Geneva, so I advise you all to get some rest, because the moment we touch down, we don't stop until the Tyrants are dealt with, you read me?"
The other men gave a chorus of nods, and Saxon glanced at D-Bar. The young hacker was quivering and wiping tears from his ruddy face.
"Wow," he managed, crack-throated, "that was some rush, huh?"
"Get below," said Powell, cutting off any reply.
Geneva International Airport—Grand-Saconnex—Switzerland
It was late evening, and a light drizzle was falling in desultory waves across the gray runway and the aircraft apron. Namir listened to the rattle
of the raindrops off the apex of the open hangar cowling overhead; the wide, low metal shed was dimly lit so as not to draw attention from the
civilian traffic passing only a few hundred meters from the nose cone of the Tyrant aircraft parked within. Once again, the jet's livery had been
reprogrammed and reconfigured to conceal its true nature. Currently it wore the black and gold of the private military contractor Belltower.
The PMC had a long-standing relationship with the Swiss government that proved a useful cover for the Tyrants. They would be left to their
own devices.
Namir walked the length of the aircraft, casting a glance across the darkened hangar to where Hermann and Barrett were working at the back
of an unmarked commercial van. The ruin of the German's right eye was hidden under an adhesive patch, but he showed no signs of suffering
for the injury. Namir didn't intervene; they knew their jobs, and after the recent incident on board the plane, they knew better than to do
anything that might be considered a further failure of their duties. He reached the jet's cargo hatch and halted, studying the door. The seal was
undamaged, but there were clear signs of surface damage around the hinges and opening mechanism. It had never been designed to be
operated while airborne.
He sensed someone approaching and turned. Federova walked toward him, folding down a hood from her dark hair, flicking rain from her
shoulders. Her expression was unreadable, but Namir knew her well enough to see the irritation lurking there. She didn't enjoy the surveillance
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