Namir laughed again. Survivor's guilt, Ben. It's what makes you weak. It's how I controlled you when you were one of us and it's how I'm going to control you now.' There was a pause, and when Namir spoke again, he was firm and commanding. 'You and this little group of troublemakers are responsible for disrupting my line of attack against the target, but the plan is adaptable. You're going to help me put it back on track.'
'Not bloody likely.' Saxon halted at a window, peering out. A police car raced past and he ducked back into cover.
'I'm not giving you the choice' Namir grated. 'When William Taggart walks out onto the steps of the Palais des Nations at midday, he's going to be shot dead by an augmented killer. Can you see where I'm going with this, Ben?'
A sense of grim inevitability settled on him. 'Taggart's life for the woman.'
'I knew you'd understand. Be at the grounds of the Palais one hour before. If you try anything foolish, I'll make sure Barrett transmits every last second of what he does to Kelso, so that the only way to silence it will be to dig that comm implant out of your skull. Are we clear?'
'As crystal…'
A click echoed in his head as the line went dead. Saxon sat in the dark and the quiet, the promises he had made turning over and over in his thoughts. Sam and Kano, Anna…
Damn Namir, but the bastard was right. He knew Saxon couldn't walk away, not now, not after everything that had happened-because for every second he was still alive, there was still a chance he could get Kelso out of there, still a chance he could find Jaron Namir and end him.
He had broken a vow to Sam Duarte, a promise to get him home again. He wouldn't let Anna down the same way.
Saxon found a door and forced it open, slipping out to the road. A tram terminal, empty this early in the morning, glittered in the dark. He climbed to the platform, finding a shaded corner to wait for the next train into the city.
When he was sure he was alone, Saxon reached for the cracked and scratched vu-phone in his pocket, and dialed a number.
The call was answered instantly by a voice made of echoes and phantoms. 'Hello, Ben. Are you all right? I feared the worst.' 'I need help,
Janus.' 'What can I do?'
Saxon thought about the communications display he'd seen on board the Tyrants jet, and the Icarus ghost- node. 'I need you to help me find something.'
Route de Ferny-Geneva-Switzerland
He found a restroom at the terminal where he could clean himself up and take stock of his options. When Saxon was ready, he picked the pocket of an unwary night-shift worker and used her pass to ride the tram to the Nations station.
When he got there, he found a confusion of crowds strung out along the line of the open plaza, leading to the southern gate of the Palais. They clustered around the base of the Broken Chair, a twelve-meter-tall sculpture of a wooden seat with one shattered leg-a symbol for the victims of land mines and cluster bombs. There were two groups, each as loud as the other, each sporting banners and placards in English and French.
The first were pro-augmentation, transhumanist activists, rallying around the sculpture as if they could use it as an image to underline their desire for freedom to control the human body; the other, larger group were against them, calling for the regulation of cybernetic enhancements.
Their banners read Stop Playing God, Protect Mankind and other familiar slogans. He saw the symbols of Taggart's movement, the Humanity
Front, at every turn.
The tension in the air was palpable, and between the two opposing sides news crews from SNN, Picus, and the BBC moved back and forth while the Swiss police did their best to remain a discreet but obvious presence.
Confrontations over the controversial science of human augmentation technology were happening more and more. Saxon had seen the reports of angry demonstrations in Washington, D.C., Tokyo, and Mombasa, incidents where the vociferous clashes had turned ugly in the blink of an eye. He pulled his jacket closer to conceal his own cyberarm, unwilling to have either group figure him for one of their camp, and studied the lines of opposition. He wondered how much of this and all the other global protests had been stimulated by the Illuminati, surrogate fights staged to manipulate media coverage and public opinion. So much bloodshed over something so abstract… At first the thought of it sickened him; but then Saxon found himself wondering about the truth. How many other flashpoints in human history had begun like this? How many had the Illuminati turned to their design?
Hovering low over the plaza, a drone blimp drifted across the morning sky. The underside was festooned with cameras, while two thinscreens showed the Picus Nightly World News feed. Saxon glanced up and saw the elegant aspect of Eliza Cassan. The Picus anchor was one of the best known celebrities on the planet, a face trusted by millions to be the voice of truth. The mere idea of that now seemed childish and na'ive to the soldier.
A speaker grille broadcast her voice across the square. 'A spokesperson for the Swiss cantonal police has informed Nightly World News that the crash of a light aircraft at Geneva International Airport was a tragic accident and in no way connected to today's sensitive meeting of the United Nations science advisory board.' Behind Cassan, images of fire tenders working on the runway unfolded. 'The meeting, which has been called to determine if UN involvement in human augmentation technology is warranted, will be attended by controversial figures such as pro-humanity advocate William Taggart-'
Mention of Taggart's name brought a brief surge of cheers and catcalls from both sides, and Cassan's voice was lost in the sound of the crowds.
Saxon watched the drone blimp continue on its way. The report made no mention of what happened to Gunther and the vehicle bomb; he reflected on what Namir had said before. By dawn, all this mess you've made will be glossed over and done with.
He frowned, burying his hands in his jacket pockets. Head down, he threaded his way through the jeering protesters, who were now taunting one another across the closed-off length of the Avenue de la Paix. Beyond lay Ariana Park, the wide commons once open to the public but now heavily patrolled and cordoned by Swiss law enforcement agencies and the private security contractors in the employ of the delegates. Saxon spotted a cluster of Belltower grunts in lightweight ballistic tunics and bascinet helmets with polarized gold visors. They were armed with flechette-firing assault rifles and urban-duty tactical shotguns, more than enough to cut him down if he tried to break the security line.
In the middle of the park was his target, the Palais des Nations. The meeting Taggart was attending would take place there, in the Assembly
Hall. Saxon began to think like the assassin Namir wanted him to be, evaluating points of entry and approaches. Once Taggart was inside the
Palais, he would be insulated from any attack. The man would have to be killed on the steps of the building, or not at all.
Saxon's eyes narrowed as he turned the thought over in his mind. In the SAS, this was a mission he had performed on more than one occasion; but then it had been in defense of King and Country, to stop conflicts rather than to start them. Here and now, he truly was no more than a blunt instrument, wielded by men in the shadows for a cause beyond his understanding.
From out of nowhere, a gruff voice cut through his thoughts. 'Keep walking. Past the tram halt. Fourth streetlight.'
He crossed the plaza to the road that paralleled it, and as he approached the lamp pole, a black SUV pulled in and halted. Saxon stepped closer as the driver's-side window dropped. 'Hands where I can see them,' said the voice. Hardesty's glowering face appeared, eyes narrowed behind dark glasses. 'Well,' he muttered, 'it's true, then. You really are too fucking stupid to die.'
Saxon obeyed and dropped his arms to his sides. He wasted no time with preamble. 'This is a no-go. I can't get in there, let alone get close to
Taggart.' He stood stock-still, taking in the man, the vehicle, anything that might give him a clue about where Namir might be. A tag on the dashboard caught his eye; it looked like a security tab, similar to the arfid
