All around, massive wallscreens replicated in realtime the pictures being webcast to the watching world. Those millions of remote viewers were five seconds behind the action; and the authorities believed that gave them the ability to cut transmission should the unexpected occur. They were yet to learn who was in control here.
Someone grabbed Josh; he struck them down.
"Holster the gun."
Hiding the weapon he continued down the red-carpet ramp, among the richly-dressed diners who more and more were turning to look at him. There were bodyguards everywhere, but he was headed for Carlsen and McGee, and that made them hold back – that and the knowledge that their every action would be seen by millions.
Someone shouted, and hands grabbed both his sleeves.
Shit.
He twisted, one hand rising as the other descended, both circling, his torque and body weight stronger than their arms, and two men spilled to the floor, rolling against two more who had been closing in, and if he continued like this then their weight and number would bury him, and none of this would work.
So he sprinted, focused from beneath his lowered eyebrows only on Fireman Carlsen.
You're a runner.
His thighs were springs, pumping. The carpet was a blood-red blur, arrowing ahead.
So run fast.
Pumping hard.
Faster than ever.
More hands reached, table knives and forks stabbing in his directions – spectators getting into the spirit – while he sprinted on.
Yes, faster.
And then he was paces from the dais.
Go.
Fingers tried to hook him but his leap was massive, an antelope escaping from a lion, but that was he wrong because he was the hunting cat, the predator, and in that moment something changed in Fireman Carlsen's eyes, as Josh spread his arms and stopped.
"It's a shame about the elephant," he said, "since I prefer pink gardenias-"
"Huh?"
Josh's movement became underwater-slow, unthreatening like a tai-chi master.
"-since it doesn't matter whether you blink now or in a second – that's right – while the more you wonder what it's not worth wondering about and don't wonder what is worth wondering" – he gestured downward with his hand, his voice growing mild – "is no wonder you're feeling sleepy and my voice goes with you as you wander deeper… and deeper… into a state of deep… relaxation, that's right… all the way… and… soften as you…"
Carlsen's chin dropped to his chest.
"…sleep now."
Success. He hoped Suzanne could see.
"All cameras are on you, Josh."
"Good."
Off to one side, Ice Pick McGee was blinking. The prime minister, Billy Church, sat with his mouth beginning to open. The elder Tyndall, Zebediah, was struggling to rise from his chair; while the younger Zak was on his feet, snarling.
At least someone understands.
But this was the PM, not just a couple of entrepreneurs, and his close-protection teams were elite. Four men in suits were already moving into position between Josh and his targets. All four had guns drawn; and if his own weapon had been visible, they would have gunned him down already.
"Freeze. Do not move!"
"I'm doing it," said Josh.
"Down on the-"
"Everyone's watching." He stared straight at Zak Tyndall. "Game over, you bastard."
" -floor."
Palms at the back of his head, Josh knelt, then sat back on his heels.
"This is it," said Tony. "Smile for the cameras."
On the giant wallscreens all around, secondary panes blossomed. In them were images of labs, children on slabs, shots of cash changing hands, displays of bank transfers, and lists of names and dates, amounts and descriptions, and overlaid diagrams of corporate structures, the false identities linking legitimate companies to crimelords. The scenes from Africa were the most harrowing.
"Virapharm labs." Josh's face was huge on the screens, his voice echoing as the system picked it up, magnifying his words. "Children, living children, used as factories, incubators where the Tyndalls' employees force-evolve new drugs by unnatural selection. Zebediah and Zak Tyndall, supporting and supported by the great and the good… and up on the screen, isn't that our prime minister going into one of those torture labs?"
Zak was muttering urgent questions, using a throat mike and earbead, then glancing up at the screens, teeth baring, and shouting: "That's not good enough! Cut it now!"
"The world," said Josh, "can still see everything."
Zebediah put a clawlike hand over his chest.
"Relax," added Josh. "You don't have a heart. And just think of the ratings."
In his earbead, Tony chuckled. "I got rid of the fivesecond delay. You wouldn't believe the numbers logging in. It's a microblog cascade."
More tables and graphs flicked across the screens. Later, when people analysed their downloads in detail, these would clinch the evidence, the minutiae of unethical and outright illegal transactions, following the complicated routes of money. Everything he and Philip Broomhall's people had uncovered was here.
All of it.
Let's see you whitewash this, you fuckers.
Fat Billy Church was pale and red at the same time, blotching as though his body could not decide how to react.
For Sophie.
Whatever happened now, he had done what he had to do for her.
"You bastard," said Zak Tyndall. "You can't manufacture false data and expect-"
"Let the people do the digging. They'll find out what's true."
"You-"
But Tyndall's father took hold of his arm, shushing him.
Wise, but too late.
Behind Josh, something moved.
"Hold still." A woman's voice.
A ring of coldness on the back of his neck. Gun barrel.
"Lower your hands. Keep them behind you."
He did, and plastic bindings locked home.
"Now stand-"
And that was when the change occurred.
"They're trying to force a cut-in," came from his earbead. "All-channel webcast."
"Stop them."
"I'm sorry, mate. Not this time."
The screens blossomed with new pictures.
Plumes of smoke.
A ruined cityscape.
And a voiceover relating destruction.
"-of the San Andreas Fault at dawn this morning, eruptions taking place across California, spreading north. Los Angeles is destroyed, repeat, LA is gone. In Washington State, Mount Rainier's eruption is orders of magnitude greater than predicted by-"
Great clouds were covering California: a whole string of locations along the Western Seaboard. Grainy footage that might have come from someone's phone showed the moment of Mt Rainier's eruption in a single massive fireball.
A blaze of energy that curled down as it grew.
No. They… couldn't have.
Rose and curled to create an iconic image that had not been seen for so long.
A mushroom cloud.
"-from President Brand, who is quoted as saying 'The Sodom and Gomorrah that infested our sacred land are now burned from the Earth. For the moment, we have no more to say.' The whole world will be wondering the exact meaning of those-"
Pandemonium encircled the tables. Atop the fighting platforms, the competitors had put down their knives. Everyone stared at the screens.
Behind Josh, several men and women in suits were gathered, firearms trained on him. One held out ID to the PM's close-protection team.
"Special Branch," she said. "We've got this bastard."
The CP men glanced up at the unreeling disaster on screen.
"Take him."
"-bigger than a hundred Hiroshimas combined, or a hundred Tunguska meteorite strikes. While the immediate death toll must be in the millions, no one knows if further-"
Rough hands tipped Josh off balance, dragging him away.