They passed among the rubberised "concrete" slabs, along the promenade. In the blues and reds of spotlights, the fragments would look menacing; up close and in daylight, they seemed like toys. Josh used the time to memorise the layout, so that he could pass this way with his eyes closed or with commotion all around. He imagined crashing sound, the detonation of flashbangs, like the Killing House in Sterling Lines where they taught him first to operate in chaos, then to cause it.
Past the restaurant and the entrance to the Barbican Centre, the showpiece theatre at the heart of the complex, they walked hand in hand, observing all, appearing casual. Doors were propped open, allowing roadies to wheel props into place. Spotlights and cables were everywhere. One such doorway led into the curved apartment block at the far end of the promenade, where Josh and Suzanne were headed.
As they went inside, he squeezed her hand. Along the carpeted corridor they went, pausing at the first intersection until Tony's voice said "Clear."
Following his directions, twice making detours that took them out of their way but avoided other people, they reached the fifth floor. Here they had to wait in the stairwell, because cleaners were at work. It would be possible to simply walk into the open corridor and go past; but right now the spycam over their heads was showing an empty staircase, at least in the central logs. The sudden appearance of Josh and Suzanne in the corridor would look like teleportation, and while Tony could deal with threat-recognition engines in software, a human who happened to catch sight of the anomaly would bring everything crashing down.
Finally, the cleaners were inside an apartment, and Tony gave the signal to move.
From his pocket, Josh drew a spectacles case, took out a pair of glasses and put them on. They stopped outside the designated apartment, and he peered at the fish-eye lens. While the system read the false retina pattern, he pulled on a latex glove, and pressed his thumb and fingertips against the reader. Suzanne muttered something, guttural French he could not understand.
Then the door clicked open, and they were in.
The apartment was plush, rich, and insulated by deep carpet, therefore quiet. He had taught Suzanne the rules of maintaining an observation post: no chatting, careful movement, and in their case no intimacy, although it was the no-flushing bathroom etiquette that disturbed her most. Besides her presence, which made this different from every other OP he had been in, there was this overwhelming feature: he was on a mission that was likely to bring down the government of his own country, an act that by most criteria was treasonous.
However instrumental the Regiment had been in changing regimes elsewhere, that had been under political control, however indirect, from Whitehalclass="underline" covert warfare as an instrument of policy. Without such sanction, when the military took it on themselves to alter governments, it was generally considered a coup, and the result was typically tyranny. When a single, embittered former soldier attempted such an action, that was more correctly seen as folly.
Sophie. I'd let the world go hang if it brought you back.
And of course that was the point. Sitting here amid soft furnishings, it was so easy to give in, to back out and take the sensible course, meaning to do nothing. With an effort, he crawled to a shuttered window, and stared down through the slits at the promenade below. After a while, he pulled back, and sat back against the wall, legs outstretched on the carpet.
Suzanne came over slowly, and sat next to him, shoulder touching.
"What's wrong?" she whispered.
All he could do was shake his head. He was used to following standard operational procedures, but whether SOPs would carry him through this crisis, he no longer knew. The thing was, self-doubt before the climax of a mission was rarely seen as a good thing. When the crunch came, as it soon would, what he needed above all else was one thing: focus.
What if I'm wrong?
Or worse: What if I'm right, and it's pointless anyway?
In the past he and his fellow Regiment members had sometimes railed at the political decisions underlying their operations. They, far more than other soldiers, maintained deep understanding of the countries they were operating in, the indigenous history and the current issues faced by citizens. They had to, whether it was to win a hearts and minds campaign or simply to pass for natives. But this time, the political decision was purely his own, and how could he possibly trust that?
He had often been scared, but he had never doubted everything.
Not like this.
In the end, he decided not to decide. As with any op, he would shut down all considerations besides the mission at hand. Then, at 17.30 the day after tomorrow, he would go into action or hold back, however his instinct demanded.
Shoulder to shoulder, he and Suzanne sat. From time to time she used a secure phone he had given her, sound off, to check the news channels. He had not wanted to pay attention; but when she handed him the phone and pointed, he had to look and wonder how Matt was doing, whether he was fighting or simply looking after his family as his country went to hell.
President Brand had moved his troops to the borders, both east and west. Commentators speculated about long-range reconnaissance missions into New York state and Oregon. The formerly united armed forces were splitting along regional divides. But for all Brand's apocalyptic rhetoric, could he truly be thinking of simultaneous invasions against both seaboards? It was strategic insanity; but cultural madness had already subsumed political intelligence, when the president talked of "smashing the legions of Satan," and "taking back the country which is ours."
Flicking back to the London news, for what seemed like almost light relief in contrast, an unidentified infection had broken out in Brixton, while ongoing streetfights-cum-riots were igniting across the capital, against a backdrop of continued white sheet lightning from storms that would not break.
I'm trying to save the world.
Everything was grim; everything was hopeless.
Maybe there's nothing left to save.
He wanted to laugh and scream. Instead, he pulled everything inside himself and waited.
In the morning, the news was no better. The PM publicly deplored the deliberate anarchistic violence, and the civil sabotage that was crippling normal services – from refuse collection to electricity. Power outages were likely, purely as a result of the riots. Despite all this, he finished with an upbeat, jocular message:
"I, for one, will be voting right after Knifefighter Challenge, because whoever wins the final, what we need is a champion for this country. Someone with the strength and daring to cut down those who would steal our way of life from us. I'll be running on a platform of increasing the people's power to change things, by letting us slice through red tape and hack away bureaucracy, once and for all!"
Afterwards, Josh pulled up his contact list, scrolled through the URIs, and selected Sophie2. Then he sat and watched, with Suzanne beside him.
A small, near-unmoving image. Monitors ringing a white bed, and at its centre, all his vulnerability, the next generation that should have been; and why did he want to save the world when the one who should inherit it was like this? How could any of it matter?
They watched the picture in silence.
That night while Suzanne slept in the master bedroom, Josh lay on the carpeted lounge floor, drifting in and out of almost-sleep. It was always like this the night before a mission, and he knew that sleeplessness would count for nothing tomorrow, because the preparation had been in the weeks leading up to this; and tomorrow would be a day filled with adrenaline.