It was late evening, and a light drizzle was falling in desultory waves across the gray runway and the aircraft apron. Namir listened to the rattle of the raindrops off the apex of the open hangar cowling overhead; the wide, low metal shed was dimly lit so as not to draw attention from the civilian traffic passing only a few hundred meters from the nose cone of the Tyrant aircraft parked within. Once again, the jet's livery had been reprogrammed and reconfigured to conceal its true nature. Currently it wore the black and gold of the private military contractor Belltower.
The PMC had a long-standing relationship with the Swiss government that proved a useful cover for the Tyrants. They would be left to their own devices.
Namir walked the length of the aircraft, casting a glance across the darkened hangar to where Hermann and Barrett were working at the back of an unmarked commercial van. The ruin of the German's right eye was hidden under an adhesive patch, but he showed no signs of suffering for the injury. Namir didn't intervene; they knew their jobs, and after the recent incident on board the plane, they knew better than to do anything that might be considered a further failure of their duties. He reached the jet's cargo hatch and halted, studying the door. The seal was undamaged, but there were clear signs of surface damage around the hinges and opening mechanism. It had never been designed to be operated while airborne.
He sensed someone approaching and turned. Federova walked toward him, folding down a hood from her dark hair, flicking rain from her shoulders. Her expression was unreadable, but Namir knew her well enough to see the irritation lurking there. She didn't enjoy the surveillance operations; she liked the hunt and the kill better than the stalking. "You're late," he said.
She looked up and saw the same scarring on the hull, and cast a questioning look at him. He smiled slightly. Yelena loved the sound of her own silence; sometimes it seemed as if he had never known her to speak at all.
"It's nothing of concern," he noted. "I'm afraid Ben Saxon made a decision to part company with us. He chose the time and place rather poorly."
Her eyes narrowed and she made a throat-cutting gesture.
"Likely." He held out a hand, changing the subject. "So. Give it to me."
Federova produced a small digital slate from her pocket and handed it over. Namir tapped the screen and scrolled through the images in the memory. The display was full of shots of the Metropol Grande, one of the more opulent of Geneva's great hotels. The footage highlighted locations for monitor cameras and security posts around the front entrance and throughout the underground garage beneath the building; others showed corridors on the executive penthouse level, accessways, and the like. The last image was at an angle, a surreptitious shot captured in a moment of opportunity. In the frame was an older man flanked by a coterie of bodyguards and personal assistants. The profile of
William Taggart's face was unmistakable. He scanned the other people in the frame, measuring them against himself, looking for anything that could be a threat. Some of the faces he was already familiar with from the files that Temple had supplied to the Tyrants; there was Isaias
Sandoval, the Humanity Front's right-hand man and chief of staff alongside Taggart's personal assistant Elaine Peller, and a few others. Not one of them possessed even the most basic of augmentations. Namir wasn't foolish enough to believe that his implants made him invulnerable, but they did make him superior. Quite how these people believed they could ever hope to protect themselves from the threats of this world threats like the Tyrants-was beyond him.
"Good work," he told her. The rest of the slate's memory was filled with copies of itinerary files and route maps, but the majority of that data had already been in the hands of the unit for some time. "Take this to Gunther. Make sure there are no last-minute variables, then help him secure the payload."
She walked off, casting a sideways look as she crossed paths with Hardesty coming the other way. The operative ran a hand over his bald pate.
"Ice queen's back, huh?" He watched her traverse the hangar. "So, I guess that means we still have a green light?"
"We still have a green light," Namir repeated. "Gunther can function, despite his injury. This sanction is too critical to the group for postponement. It must go ahead." Hardesty nodded, but he didn't leave. After a moment, Namir spoke again. "Was there something else you wanted to say, Scott?"
The other man folded his thin arms over his chest. "I was right about Saxon."
"Yes, you were." Namir met his gaze and waited for the rest of it.
Hardesty didn't disappoint. "He was weak. He never had the steel for this work. You made the wrong call-"
"Enough," Namir silenced him. "What do you want from me? An apology?"
"You misread him, and it almost cost us the operation!" Hardesty was emboldened by Namir's admission of error, and he was pushing it.
"Do you know why I wanted him to join us?" said Namir. The ice in his tone chilled the air between them. "It's because he had a code of conduct, Scott. Unlike you. Because this unit needs balance."
Hardesty was on the verge of launching into an argument, but he caught himself before he said something he might have regretted. As much as he was a braggart, Hardesty wasn't foolish enough to cross swords with Jaron Namir. Instead, he allowed himself a belligerent smile. "Balance, huh?" He glanced up at the scarred hull of the jet. "Look what that got you," he said, walking away.
Aerial Transit Corridor-Maury Sea Channel-North Atlantic
It was cold inside the airship's cavernous cargo bay. Faint layers of frost gathered on the sides of the container pods filling the length of the compartment. Breath emerged from Saxon's mouth in streams of white vapor as he walked the length of the companionway; the Caidin replacements for his lower legs were starting to bed in at last, and he'd used the downtime to get himself back into fighting condition. He didn't want a repeat of what happened when they boarded.
Powell and his men kept close to the aft service bay, where noisy electric motors fed the airships rotors and kept the area a little warmer than the rest of the cargo spaces. Without comment, he crossed into the group and helped himself to a couple of cheap YouLike self-heating coffee cans and power bars.
He found Kelso on her own, huddled inside a solar foil blanket. She was miles away, her gaze fixed on a brass coin as she turned it over and over in her fingers. She looked up as he approached and palmed the coin, as if she'd been caught doing something wrong. He held out a can and she took it, striking the base on the deck to get the thermal tab working.
Saxon dropped into a lotus settle and did the same, tossing her one of the bars. She unwrapped it with her teeth, waiting for him to speak; he tried to frame the question the right way, then finally gave up.
He nodded at her hand, where she had the coin. "How long have you been clean?" When she didn't answer straight away, he went on. "S'okay. I know what the chip is for…" He drifted off, frowning at himself.
Kelso studied him. "You were in the program?"
He shook his head. "Not me. My old man." He made a drinking motion with the can. "He didn't do that well with it."
"Stims. For a while." Her eyes narrowed; she was taking this as a challenge. "It doesn't make me weak," she told him.
"Of course not" he replied. "If anything, they give you the chip, it means you're stronger, yeah?"
"Yeah." She didn't sound convinced by her reply.
He swigged at the coffee and made a face. It tasted like someone had stubbed a cigarette out in it; but it was hot, and that was what counted.
Saxon leaned forward. "You don't think you can trust me." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Like Powell and the rest. You think I'm marked."
"After everything that's happened to me over the past few months, I'd question my own family." She grimaced as she took a pull from the can, then shot him a look. "Why'd you lie to Powell?"