demise, citing health reasons, but the vilification of him in the press and online — criminal, coward, collaborator — continued unabated. For all that he was currently serving in an ill-defined role as some sort of goodwill ambassador for the UN, he was seldom seen in public, and had not set foot on British soil since leaving 10 Downing Street, perhaps for fear of being arrested, or lynched.
At this same hour, in New York, a big band struck up show tunes on Governors Island at the spot where the giant statue of Zeus no longer stood, and people started to dance. In Paris, where it was evening, a firework display splash-painted the sky above the recently restored Eiffel Tower. In Sydney, where day was just breaking, the Australian prime minister delved a spade into the ground, declaring building work on a new Opera House begun. In Bruges, a statue was unveiled with all due pomp and circumstance — and the imbibing of a great deal of pale lager — in the centre of the Markt. It was a memorial to the Unknown Titan, to add to the countless other similar memorials that had been erected all across the planet.
Meanwhile, a breeze off Lake Michigan kept the throng of Chicagoan L-Day celebrants cool as they milled about. Conversations returned again and again to that day three years ago when it had become apparent that the Olympians were no more, all killed at the hands of Sir Neville Armstrong-Hall's little impromptu army and the last remaining Titans. Where were you when you first heard the news? Wasn't it amazing to see those interviews with troops who had taken part and listen to their accounts of shooting monsters and combating a metal giant? And how about that footage of the JDS Inazuma Maru bombarding Olympus from just off the coast, razing the Pantheonic stronghold to the ground? And the helicopter shots of the smouldering ruin afterwards? The long-distance images of the mountain with smoke billowing up from its summit?
Armstrong-Hall's name received repeated mention. After the attack on Olympus the distinguished old soldier had gone home to face the music: a court martial, and even the possibility of trial at the Hague on charges of being a war criminal. A vast international public outcry, however, had soon put paid to that, and he was quietly discharged and pensioned off instead. Now in retirement at his home in the Cotswolds, Britain's erstwhile Chief of General Staff divided his time between penning his memoirs and cultivating rare strains of apple in his orchard. On L-Day it could be guaranteed that at least fifty different TV stations and newspapers from all over the globe would ring him up to ask for a comment, but all he would say was: 'I did what I had to do and what was right. It isn't me you should be talking to. It's the soldiers I led. They did all the work and took far greater risks than I. They and the Titans — whoever they were.'
And of course there was much discussion of the Titans at Lincoln Park, as at every other L-Day event, most of it favourable, some of it speculative. The Titans remained anonymous. Identities, nationalities, origins — all a mystery. Even the bodies of the ones killed in action had never been found. Ghostly, they had appeared. Ghostly, they had gone. In a way, that was preferable to knowing everything about them, every last personal detail. They were blank slates, everymen who had emerged from nowhere to fulfil a function, then melted away back into the shadows. What they'd helped bring about meant more than who they'd actually been.
So in Lincoln Park, on this summery and boisterous L-Day, it was possible to imagine that a Titan might be standing right next to you. Might be that man in the queue for the hot dog vendor. Might be that woman sipping bottled water while leaning on a lakefront lamppost. Might be that rollerblader whizzing around in a cutoff L-Day T- shirt (motto: Waking Up From A 10-Year Nightmare). Might be that rich-voiced gospel singer leading a chorus of 'Amazing Grace.'
Might even be one or other (or both) of that mixed-race couple who were pushing a baby-stroller through the crowd and observing the goings-on with a detached, wry amusement.
'Don't you just feel like standing up and telling them?' said he to her. 'Shouting it out loud? 'That's me you guys are all so jazzed up about. I'm the one. Come and give me a pat on the back. Maybe the key to the city too.''
' You might,' said she to him. 'I wouldn't.'
'Pride ain't a crime.'
'No, but modesty's a virtue.'
'You're not even tempted? Don't tell me you're not tempted.'
'Not for a moment. Besides, what makes you think they'd believe us? Dozens of people have come out of the woodwork in the past three years claiming they were a Titan. They've all been debunked and laughed at. Why would we get treated any differently?'
'Uh, because it's true?'
'Face it, Rick, we're better off this way. We have a nice, quiet life. Be a pity to ruin it.'
'Quiet?' said Ramsay, casting a dubious glance at the occupant of the stroller, who was fast asleep.
Sam followed his gaze. 'Well, for another few minutes, at any rate. Hey, ice-cream van. Fancy a snow cone?'
They ate the cones on a bench overlooking the brilliant expanse of the lake, where pleasure cruisers, jet-skis and water skiers leashed to speedboats all vied for space, cross-hatching one another's wakes.
'Oh, I got an email from Jamie this morning,' Sam said.
'And how is yon bonnie laddie?'
'Your Scottish accent is even worse than your English.'
'Did I not sound like Sean Connery?'
'Not even close. And Jamie's fine. He's got a girlfriend now, so I don't hear from him as often as I used to.'
'McCann has a girlfriend?'
'Don't sound so surprised. He's cute — in a boyish way. He's also pretty wealthy, thanks to Landesman.'
'Aren't we all?' said Ramsay.
Jolyon Lillicrap, as executor of Regis Landesman's will, had supervised the disbursement of funds from his late boss's estate. Channelling the money through various offshore accounts so as to render it untraceable, he had ensured that everyone involved in the Titanomachy II campaign, from techs to surviving Titans, had been duly and amply rewarded for their services, himself included. By this means Sam and Ramsay had been able to buy a handsome, serviced penthouse apartment on North Lake Shore Drive, with spectacular views of the lake. They'd also established financial security for themselves for the rest of their lives.
'And Therese?' Ramsay enquired. 'She called lately?'
'No, but the trip to Quebec to visit her is still on.' Sam nodded at the stroller. 'I'll take him with me so she can see how big he's getting.'
'The poor woman. Any, you know, progress?'
Sam shook her head. 'Every treatment in the book's been tried. If it's not made any difference by now, it's never going to.'
Hamel had been left quadriplegic by Poseidon's attack. Sam's intervention had prevented him from fully coagulating the blood in Hamel's veins but he'd done enough damage to trigger a series of small ischemic strokes, the result of which was complete loss of function and sensation below the neck. Hamel could afford the best of healthcare and occupational therapy and, tough old broad that she was, she remained resolutely upbeat about her condition, arguing that it could have been worse, she could be dead, and moreover it had all been in a good cause. Sam, though, still felt an ache in the pit of her stomach every time she thought of her.
'If I'd only been a fraction quicker off the mark…'
Ramsay lodged a reassuring arm around her shoulders. 'Stop it. You always beat yourself up about this, and it isn't going to change anything. Therese doesn't blame you, so neither should you.'
Sam nestled her head against the muscled firmness of his shoulder. 'Rick,' she said after a few moments, 'what do you think about, when you think about that day?'
He gazed out over the lake. On the grass nearby a drummer was pounding on bongos, beating out a complex polyrythym for a throng of neo-hippie L-Dayers to freak out to.
'Mostly I think how goddamn lucky you and me were to get out alive. When Zeus went all self-destructo on us… I mean, Jesus, if it hadn't been for our suits, we'd have been toast. Crispy-fried bacon. Done to a turn and carbon round the edges.'
'Me, I can't forget Zeus's face as Landesman — you know.'
'Castrated him.'
'The sheer disbelief. His own father. After all the feuding and bad blood between them, suddenly he was just a kid again, ten years old, not understanding how his daddy could be so cruel.'
