She sat in the dimness, lit only by the glow of the screen, and began to wonder what else had taken place while she was in New York. Temple had reamed her files, that much was certain ... but had he sent agents to her home as well? Anna looked around. She saw nothing out of place.
A sudden impulse pushed her up from the chair where she sat, and she crossed to the closet. Inside, hidden behind the hanging clothes, the safe-locker she'd installed back when she moved in was visible, the door still sealed shut. She typed in the entry code and found the contents as she'd left them. A box of what little jewelry she had, some cash and papers—and in a separate section, a short-frame Zenith 10 mm automatic, two full ammo clips, and a small flash drive.
Anna took the gun and checked it before loading. The weapon was legal, licensed and clean. If anything, the flash drive was the more dangerous item; inside it was an encrypted copy of everything she had worked on, every bit of data gleaned along the road to this moment.
She turned the memory module over in her hand. All that work, all the lies and secrecy, the nights she stayed late at the agency offices digging into files she should never had accessed, the legacy of the stims she'd taken to keep awake, to keep going ...
Was it worth it?
A chime sounded though the apartment, and Anna flinched in surprise. The house was announcing a call on her vu-phone. She left the gun and the drive on a shelf in the closet and went to the handset.
The caller ident read Matt Ryan. Anna had been maudlin about deleting his name and number from the phone's memory. It was a foolish, silly thing, but she'd kept putting it off; perhaps on some level she was denying the reality of what had happened six months ago on Q Street.
She gripped the handheld, her knuckles turning white around the silver casing. Slowly, Anna raised it to her ear, tapping the answer pad. "Who is this?"
The voice at the other end was electronically distorted, all trace of identity bled out. "You and I need to have a talk." Kelso's training instinctively kicked in; she tried to listen through the masking filter, looking for the cadence and pattern of the voice, profiling the speaker in her mind.
"Whoever you are, you're not Matt Ryan. So I'm hanging up—"
"That would be a mistake ," said the voice. "I spoofed the caller ID so youd pick up. Because I'm guessing right now that you're not in the mood to talk to people. Not after what happened at the pier."
Her throat went dry. "What pier?"
"Don't talk to me like I'm stupid, Agent Kelso. I really hate it when people do that."
"Then show me the same courtesy," she snapped, her patience wearing thin. "Who the hell are you and what do you want? Answer that or get lost."
Anna heard a faint sigh. "You can call me D-Bar. And like I said, I wanna talk to you."
"We are talking."
"Well, when I say I want to, I really mean we want to. And not over an open line. In person."
She drifted back toward the closet, reaching for the pistol. "Uh-huh. And who is 'we'?"
"A group you may have heard of. We call ourselves the Juggernaut Collective. We're kind of a big deal."
Anna's hand froze on the gun. "If you know who I am and what happened out at the pier, then you know the last thing I'm going to do is talk to a terrorist." She should have disconnected, right then and there; but instead she waited.
"One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. Yeah, trite, maybe, but true." The sigh came again. "Look, let's cut to the chase, 'cos I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this conduit secure. You went to that wannabe Widow and her crew and they gave you some scraps. But the fact is, she's a bottom-feeder and she was never going to get you what you need. We can. We're looking for the same thing."
"I don't know what you're talking about—"
"The Tyrants. Do you want to know who they are or not?" Anna said nothing, and after a moment the voice returned. "I'll take your silence for a yes. Check your messages. If we see anyone but you, that name will be all you'll ever get." The connection cut with a click; a moment later, the vu-phone beeped. In the message cue was a street address in downtown Washington, D.C., and a meeting time two hours hence.
In the bathroom she paused to splash a handful of cold water on her face. Two hours; that barely gave her enough time to throw on a fresh set of clothes and bolt out the door.
And she was tired. The events in New York, the time in the cells, the nervous tension of the flight home ... The fatigue from all of it was exerting a heavy, tidal drag on her. She couldn't afford to do this half-awake. She couldn't afford to miss something.
Anna reached for the door to the medicine cabinet without looking in the mirror.
Knightsbridge—London—Great Britain
The town house had once been a hotel, an exclusive boutique lodge in a shady mews just a few blocks away from the greensward of Hyde Park. Like so much of the city, it sat in unconcerned contrast with the sheer-sided corporate towers emerging from the streets around it, the pale stone of the five-story exterior understated, the rectangular windows lit from within by a warm glow not lost through the thickness of armored polyglass. From the outside, it seemed no different from any of its neighbors; but the structure of the town house was reinforced and hardened against anything up to a rocket attack.
Saxon glanced around the fourth-floor room and took in the clean, sparse decor; white walls and chrome-framed furniture. A print of Rubin's The Flute Player hung on one wall, a large thinscreen monitor mirroring it on the far side of the room. The six operatives sat around a long, glass-topped conference table, each dressed in what passed for civilian attire—although to a trained eye none of the Tyrants could shake the aura of a soldier, even when armor and weapons were out of reach.
At first, Saxon thought the town house was some sort of operations center, perhaps the London base for the Tyrants; but then he had glimpsed slivers of the rooms on the lower floors through half-open doors. He saw living spaces, a study, a kitchen—and dotted around, the touches that showed a family lived in this place. On the third-floor landing, Saxon passed a framed photo and had to look twice; Jaron Namir gazed back out at him, dressed in a suit and wearing a yarmulke, smiling broadly. A woman in yellow and two children, a boy and a girl, shared his good cheer. The image was jarring; try as he might, Saxon couldn't connect the man in the picture with the man he had seen kill silently with no pause, no flicker of remorse.
They were in Namir's home. Something about the idea of that ground against Saxon's every ingrained instinct. The idea of a man like him, a man like Namir having a life and a family outside the unit, seemed false. Somehow, unfair.
In the wake of the mission in Moscow, the team had gone through a cursory review aboard the transport plane as it flew west, back into European airspace. As with every other operational debrief, Saxon had felt as if they were going through the motions, not just for themselves, but for some unseen observer. The people who gave the orders were watching, he was certain of it. Not for the first time, he wondered if they would ever show their faces.
Seated around the table, Namir led them through the postmortem once again. On the plane, they had given their reports one at a time; now, with all of them together, Saxon felt the pressure of the unanswered questions in his thoughts.
He leaned forward. "I could have brought Kontarsky in alive."
Hardesty gave him an arch look. "Was that ever the objective?"
Saxon ignored him, turning to Namir. "You said Kontarsky was working with Juggernaut. He was a high-value target. He must have had intel we could use."
"The minister was compromised," Namir replied. "Anything we'd have been able to compel from him through interrogation would have been marginal at best. We didn't need what he knew."
Saxon's eyes narrowed. Despite what Namir had told him earlier, he was sure of Kontarsky's reaction when he mentioned Operation Rainbird. The name meant nothing to the man.
Namir saw his train of thought and headed him off. "You need to see past this,
Ben. Don't make it personal. Kontarsky was a cancer in the Russian federal government. We cut him out."
"Sends a message," offered Barrett in a languid tone. "Anyone deals with Juggernaut, they're not protected."
"We're not in the business of taking prisoners," Namir went on. "You know that."
Hardesty leaned back in his chair. "As we're on the subject, maybe the limey can explain why it is he didn't just double-tap the creep the moment he found him?"
"I told you. I could have brought him in."
"You don't get to make that choice," Hardesty replied. "You're not in command of this unit.
We're not your little PMC scout troop, Saxon. You lost that, remember?"
Saxon studied the other man. "Maybe if you were actually on the deck with the rest of us, instead of hiding behind a camo net four hundred meters away, I might have some respect for your opinion, Yank" He gave the last word a sneer. "Don't make the mistake of thinking you see everything down that rifle scope."
"What I did see was you talking to the mark," insisted the sniper. "And someone else, too, maybe?"
"Kontarsky was the only one in the room," Saxon replied, a little quicker than he would have liked. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hermann, Federova, and Barrett watching the exchange, gauging his reaction.
Do you know what you are doing, mercenary? The ghost-voice's questions returned to him. Do you know what master you serve?
The misgivings muttering at the edges of his thoughts were there, clear and undeniable. Saxon broke eye contact with Hardesty as Namir stood up and crossed the room to a window.
"I understand your intentions," said the commander. "But I need all of you to follow orders when I give them. We may not have allegiance to a flag anymore, but we all must share allegiance to the Tyrants. If we don't have that, then we're no better than Juggernaut or any of the other anarchists out there." He threw a look toward Saxon and Hermann. "You two are our newest recruits. You both understand that, don't you?"
"Of course," replied Hermann, without hesitation. In turn, Saxon gave a wary nod.
Namir went on. "There are reasons for everything we do. Reasons for every order I give you. Every mission." He smiled slightly, the craggy face softening for a brief moment. "We cannot bring stability if we don't have equilibrium in our ranks." Namir's gaze crossed to Hardesty, and his tone hardened again. "Clear?"
The sniper pursed his lips. "Clear," he repeated.
He will never tell us, Saxon realized. Whoever is pulling the strings, he's never going to pull back the curtain on them. The question that came next pressed to the front of his thoughts: Can I live with that?
In the months since Namir had plucked him from the field hospital in Australia, Saxon had earned more money than he had in years of service with Belltower and to the British Crown. The Tyrants had fitted him with high-spec augmentation upgrades, given him access to weapons and hardware that had been beyond his reach in the SAS or as a military contractor. Downtime between missions was spent at secure resorts, the likes of which were open only to corporate execs and the very rich. And the missions ... the missions were the most challenging he'd ever had. Putting aside Hardesty's irritating manner, Saxon meshed well with all the Tyrant team members. He couldn't deny that he liked the work. They were free of all the paperwork and second-guessing he'd waded through as someone else's line soldier. None of the Tyrants wasted time saluting and sweating the trivial crap; they just got on with the business of soldiering, and the appeal of that simple fact held Ben Saxon tight.
He liked being here. Despite all the doubts, it still felt right. After all the two- or three-man operations, the tag-and-bags, the terminations and infiltrations, and then the Moscow gig, Saxon felt as if he had graduated. He was in; but part of him remained troubled, and it annoyed him that he couldn't fully articulate it.
Was it the secrets? It seemed foolish to consider it; as a spec ops soldier, he'd spent most of his career working in the dark ... but with the British Army and then with Belltower, he'd at least had some grasp on what he was risking his life for.
In the humid night air of the field hospital, Namir had offered him a second chance. He had offered the opportunity to make a difference, but more than that, Namir had offered Saxon trust.
Or perhaps, just the illusion of it. There were other operations going on, he was certain. Tyrant missions that he wasn't supposed to be aware of; he knew for a fact that Federova and Hardesty had been deployed to the United States, Japan, and India on untraceable black-bag jobs. Once more, any question about who chose their targets or what they were was not going to be answered.
Do you know what master you serve?
He decided then that for the moment, the questions the shadowy hacker Janus had posed would go no further.
Namir turned from the window. "It's clear to me that we've reached an important juncture here." Hardesty, Federova, and Barrett abruptly stood up, with Saxon and Hermann reacting just a second later. For a moment, the ghost of a cold smile danced on Hardesty's lips.
"About time," said Barrett.
Namir nodded to the big man. "Open the study, will you?"
Barrett nodded and crossed to the wall where The Flute Player hung. He whispered something Saxon didn't catch and a seam opened on silent hydraulics. The wall retracted into itself to reveal more rooms beyond. Saxon caught sight of a dark, windowless space, weapons racks, and workstations.
"Yelena?" Namir inclined his head toward Federova.
The woman's hand blurred as she pulled a weapon from a pocket, a boxy plastic handgun lined with a yellow-and-black hazard strip. She turned it on Hermann and pulled the trigger.
A thick dart buzzed from the muzzle and hit the German in the neck; Saxon heard the hum of a tazer discharge and Hermann moaned, his body going rigid. The younger man fell, his watch cap falling from his head.
"What—?" Saxon looked up as a second dart struck him in the chest. He had an instant to register the bite of the contact needles in his skin before a second stun charge lashed into him.
The Ohama Center—Washington, D.C.—United States of America
The message brought her to the doors of the conference center, the fading light of evening lit by the glow from inside the glass-and-steel building. A gallery of holograms formed a promenade from the street to the main doors, each of them moving through cycles showing venue information and events listings.
She moved closer, her senses sharpened and acute; for the moment, the fatigue gnawing at her had been beaten back. Kelso knew she'd pay for it later—but for now she was focused and alert.
Over the entrance, a banner announced the name of the seminar that was about to begin: No Better—The Myth of Human Augmentation. She immediately recognized the title. The ebook that it was based on had been hovering around the top ten of the Picus Network best-seller list forever, along with its various audio and video versions, not to mention the frequent references to it on the chat-show news circuit. She glanced up to see the face of the author smiling down from one of the holoscreens. William Taggart's warm, fatherly eyes watched her from behind a pair of understated glasses, wearing the same expression of compassionate concern that graced the back cover of every copy of No Better, and every flyer for his lobby group, the Humanity Front.
Taggart had founded his organization with one goal in mind—to disabuse society at large of the idea that human augmentation technology was a positive development. As Taggart's people would put it, cybernetic implants served only to dilute a person's humanity, making them less than what they were instead of more.
Anna found the Humanity Front's rhetoric a little hard to take, though. The augmentations she possessed had improved her, and that was something she'd never been in doubt about—and when she thought about the facets of her life that made her feel less human, her implants weren't at the root of it. She frowned and pushed that thought away.
Smartly dressed young men and women were handing out flyers to the attendees and anyone who walk
ed within arm's reach. Anna noted that a fair few of them were sporting simple mechanical prosthetics in place of limbs. These were people who had taken to what some called "disaugmentation," freely giving up cybernetic implants in an attempt to move back to being fully human again; the only thing was, losing an augmentation wasn't like getting a gang tattoo removed or ditching your piercings. She didn't know quite how to take someone who'd made that choice willingly. Maybe life with a basic leg prosthesis was easier, with less maintenance to deal with and no weekly regimen of neuropozyne doses to keep the nerve contacts crisp, but Anna wasn't buying it.
Here, though, she seemed to be in the minority. A lot of the downtowner crowd were filing in to hear Taggart give his lecture, and after having heard the man on television, Anna had to admit he had charisma enough to hold your attention, and the kind of academic gravitas that many people admired. Along with plenty of his supporters, he was here to make his voice heard at the National Science Board meetings, to continue his campaign to decry augmentation; he would doubtless be a fixture at the pro-flesh demonstrations taking place over the next few days.
As she entered the conference center atrium, as if on cue, a recording of Taggart's voice issued out of a hidden speaker. "Some people believe augmentation is the wave of the future. That replacing part of yourself with machines will make you superhuman ... But the truth is, for every part of yourself you sacrifice, you are less than you were before. That's why I created the Humanity Front. Tonight, Fll tell you why you should be apart of it, too."
Anna scowled slightly. The name made Taggart's anti-aug crusade sound like a paramilitary group, and Anna wondered if that might have been a deliberate choice. Some of the people who shared Taggart's views did a lot more than write books or give speeches; episodes of violence against augmented humans fanned the flames of a new breed of intolerance. Groups like the militants of Purity First were more than happy to twist Taggart's message toward aggressive ends.
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