His jaw dropped a few millimetres, the prison-yard facade cracking ever so slightly.
"That's what you tell people, at any rate," Sam went on. First the sucker punch, now the right hook. "Truth is, you're in the Territorials. Weekend soldier. Or you were, 'til they had to kick you out."
Bullseye. Darren's expression soured. He fixed her with a glare of pure venom, and then the shutters came down again. His face returned to its default setting, loose indifference.
"Miss Akehurst!" Landesman exclaimed. He applauded softly. "A remarkable feat. Truly remarkable. Accurate on every count, including Mr Pugh" — Darren — "and his somewhat less than stellar CV. Not that we hold that against him. He has qualities that could well prove useful. But really, Sam — you don't mind if it's Sam? Lillicrap tells me you prefer it to Samantha. Really, Sam, you've excelled yourself. When it came to putting together this little assemblage of ours, your name was at the top of my list. You've shown that I wasn't wrong to rate you so highly."
"I wouldn't be surprised if you spent quite a long time compiling that list," Sam said.
"Fully a year's worth of work went into it. It wasn't easy. Digging up records, going through psychological profiles, locating personnel files, some of them quite confidential. One other basic requirement for selection was a good working knowledge of English at the least, and preferably native fluency."
"Well then, I'm buggered, aren't I?" laughed Barrington. "Me and the Queen's English, we're barely on speaking terms."
"Clear lines of communication are vital for the enterprise I have planned," said Landesman. "Eventually I arrived at a long-list of just over thirty potential candidates. I winnowed it down to twelve, my ideal twelve, sent out invitations worded carefully so as to intrigue — and lo and behold all twelve of you turned up. A very gratifying result."
"So what is it?" Ramsay said. "You've got us all here, you've dropped a few teasing hints, now's the time for the big reveal, chief. We've been patient. We're ready for it. I think we deserve it."
"Yes, yes indeed," said Landesman. "Just one further moment of your time."
There were groans.
"I assure you, this is the very last thing. A question. One that begs a simple yes-or-no response. One that will determine which of you wish to proceed to the next stage and which are happy to go no further."
"Go ahead," said Ramsay. "Shoot."
"If," Landesman asked, "you had the power to kill gods — gods and monsters — would you use it?"
5. DROPOUT
The room fell ponderingly silent.
"A show of hands will suffice," said Landesman.
"Kill gods," said Ramsay. "The Olympians."
"And their assorted monstrous hangers-on, that misbegotten menagerie of theirs — Typhon, the Minotaur, the Gorgons, all the rest."
"You can do that? You can give us that power?"
"Let's focus on the question itself for the moment, shall we?"
"No, wait, you're seriously saying you could make it so that we, the twelve of us here round this table, could hurt the Olympians?"
"Not merely hurt. Destroy."
"Impossible," said Harryhausen. "Can't be done. Whole armies have tried. Tried and failed. I know this."
"The Olympians are hard bastards," said Barrington. "Hardest of the hard. The stuff they can do…"
"I realise it seems far-fetched," said Landesman. "Let's treat this as a hypothetical, then. A thought exercise. Given sufficient means to kill an Olympian, would you? Don't tell me none of you has ever considered it. In your dreams, in your blackest, bleakest moments, you've all fantasised about it — avenging the loved ones the Olympians took from you. They've caused you such grief, such pain. It would be only natural to want to strike back at them. Of course you've also told yourselves that this is idle, wasteful speculation. Better to forget, forgive if you are able, move on with your lives. You can't exact revenge on the Pantheon in the same way that you can't exact revenge on a tornado or an earthquake. But what if you could? What if you were presented with the chance to do just that? Would you reject it or grasp it?"
"Grasp." Soleil Eto'o put up her hand. "What else have I been doing since my parents' deaths? Trying to kill Olympians whenever possible. That's what we in the resistance do. We don't succeed. With our nail bombs and our rocket-propelled grenades we try, but we don't succeed, and mostly we wind up getting ourselves killed. But if you are telling me you know of a better way, Mr Landesman, a way that might actually bring success, count me in."
"I'm a yes too," said Sondergaard, raising his hand. "At Sj?lland we gave the Olympians a fight to remember. We lost. We knew going in that we would. But we showed them that Denmark wasn't going to just sit back and let the world be taken over. I'd like another chance to make that point."
"Sj?lland was an empty gesture, Herr Sondergaard," Harryhausen snorted. "Were the Olympians impressed? Did they congratulate your whole country afterwards for so kindly volunteering to be crushed by them? Perhaps they were glad for the target practice."
"So you would rather we had done nothing?"
"I can't speak for Denmark, but I would rather Germany had done nothing. Then my Dietrich would still be alive. But it is my nation's curse always to follow its leaders, however misguided they are."
"So it's a nein from you, Frau Harryhausen?" said Landesman.
"No, not a nein." She raised a hand. "Unless this gesture of yours proves to be an empty one as well…"
"Trust me, it won't."
"I'm in too," said Tsang. "I'm not sure why, but I am."
Other hands followed his into the air: Sparks's, Chisholm's, Hamel's.
"That's more than half," said Landesman. "Looking good so far. Anyone else?"
Mahmoud put hers up. "Can't do any harm to find out what you're offering. I'm not promising I'm in this all the way — but I'm definitely interested."
"Good enough. Rick, what about you?"
"Either you're a deluded nutjob or a nutjob hiding one hell of an ace up your sleeve. Lucky for you, I like nutjobs." Hand up. "Former gunnery sergeant Richard Ramsay, reporting for duty."
"Mr Barrington?"
"Ah, what the hell." Up went a meaty paw. "You have the Barracuda's services. What's the pay like and will there be beer?"
"Generous, and occasionally," said Landesman. "Your salaries will be enough to leave you living in reasonable comfort for the rest of your lives without having to work again. Alcohol, on the other hand, will be in limited supply. We'll make every effort to cater to all your domestic wants and needs. Mrs Fuller, Captain Fuller's wife, makes regular trips to supermarkets on our behalf, and is happy to take orders for specific items. Booze, however, will have to be consumed in moderation, I'm afraid, and inebriation will not be tolerated at all. Rules of the house, and non-negotiable."
"Right-o. Well, that could be a deal breaker. I might have to reconsider."
"Too late now. Miss Akehurst. Sam. It goes without saying that I'd be overjoyed to have you on board. What's the verdict? Yea or nay?"
Sam felt all eyes on her. The centre of attention was not a place she liked to be. Once, in younger days, it had been. Not any more.
"I don't know."
"Please."
"You're asking me to become involved in something, something to do with the Olympians, when I've been busy doing my best to forget the Olympians even exist. You have no idea how difficult it's been for me, how hard I've struggled just to get close to being normal again. And then you come along, someone I don't know and have no great reason to trust…"
"I'll beg if I have to," Landesman said. "I'll get down on my knees and kiss the hem of your robe. Prostrate myself before you."
"Come on, Sam," said Ramsay. "The man's prepared to humiliate himself, he wants you that bad. Don't make him do it. It's not dignified. Besides, his age, he might not be able to get up again. You know how it is with old guys and their prostrates."