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 discs used by the Belltower grunts.
Hardesty shifted in the seat and Saxon's attention was drawn away. The other man had a Diamondback revolver resting across his folded arms.
The muzzle was aimed right at Saxon's chest. "You have no idea how much I want to pull this trigger," said Hardesty, ignoring his comments.
"Put a round into you, blow your lungs across the goddamn plaza…" He grinned coldly. "You almost cost us this op. I had an instinct about you from day one, limey. I should have fragged you in Queensland along with the rest of your squad."
A calm kind of anger settled on Saxon. "Then do it, if you got the balls. Either that or be Namir's errand boy, like he told you to. I don't have all day."
For a long second, Saxon thought Hardesty might actually shoot, as his expression tightened into a rictus; but then he sniffed and let the gun drop. "You're right. You don't. So listen up, 'cos I'm not going to repeat myself." He reached for a small bag and threw it at Saxon. "There's an armor jacket in there for you. Follow the avenue around toward the next gate. A public-works crew are laying some new blacktop in the near lane. You got cover there to hop the wall, get inside. The Swiss cops got two-man teams on patrol, so don't get caught before you get to the target."
"You expect me to walk right up to Taggart and break his neck?"
Hardesty sniggered and opened the revolver's chamber, shaking the gun so all six bullets fell out. Then he handed the empty weapon to Saxon, who quickly stuffed it into the bag before anyone spotted him. "Here," he said, holding up a single round between his thumb and forefinger.
"You're supposed to be good. So this should be more than enough."
He tossed the bullet and Saxon caught it out of the air. "What about Kelso? I don't even know if she's still alive."
"That's right, slick, you don't" snarled the other man. "Now, go be a good dog and do as you're told, and maybe the bitch lives." He leaned forward, lowering his voice, showing teeth. "Personally? I'm hoping you try something. I want you to refuse, Saxon. I want the excuse to put you out of my misery." Hardesty spat on the ground. "You talk like you're a soldier, but you're nothing, limey. I know your kind, bleeding-heart warrior, all about the good and the noble, but you got no idea how the real world works. You got no steel in you."