Thus disguised, she waited.
A well-dressed young man stepped into the vestibule of the Bank du Nord, punched a few keys, scratched his temple idly, then left. He had all the appearances of an ordinary man passing through the neighborhood on an errand. In the light of what was to come, no one would remember him.
Henrik Morten had planned his route and activities carefully, right down to his bored nonchalance in the vestibule. It helped that he had actual business to transact—he’d recently come into possession of funds that were best transferred at a location other than his normal bank. Tomorrow, the funds would be transferred again as they made their tangled way to their final destination.
If his timing was right, he’d be just an innocent bystander to what was going to erupt any minute. He passed through the security barrier at the building’s front entrance and paused on the exterior steps to let his eyes adjust to the outside light.
An instant later the sun-dazzle cleared from his eyes, just in time for him to see a Capellan woman stumble and fall away from the crowd, into the path of an oncoming bus. He watched her, and the scene he knew she would cause, out of the corner of his eye.
The woman was lucky. She managed to roll away from the vehicle a fraction of a second before it would have hit her, and scrambled, red-faced and panting, to her feet. Pointing a trembling hand at the man– not a Capellan, Henrik saw—who had been standing nearest her in the crowd, she shouted out an accusation that Henrik didn’t quite catch.
The argument escalated faster than Henrik could follow, collecting a sympathetic crowd of partisan onlookers. He hesitated, acting as if he was torn between the desire to watch the conflict unfold and the desire to get away fast. As he waited, the knot of shouting, gesticulating people grew larger and took up more and more of the sidewalk.
Somebody shouted a political slogan—“Strength and Dignity!” it sounded like, although what those qualities had to do with a woman nearly being run over by a bus in downtown Geneva, Henrik wasn’t sure—and somebody else shouted an insult. One man shoved another into the street, and was himself promptly knocked down by a third. The woman whose stumble into traffic had started the whole altercation was no longer anywhere to be seen.
Henrik turned and walked up the bank’s stairs, jumping quickly to his left to avoid a couple of bank guards moving down the stairs. He quickly returned to his right, placing himself back in his chosen path.
Safe enough, at least for the moment, Henrik stood to watch the end result of the work by a woman whom, before today, he’d only heard about.
21
Office of the Exarch, Hall of Government, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
1 December 3134
Heather GioAvanti swore not to look at her noteputer the next time it beeped. She needed to have at least two minutes of uninterrupted thought if she was to accomplish anything.
It beeped. She ignored it. It beeped again, then twice in quick succession.
She cursed and let her thoughts be interrupted.
Kerensky’s Bastards swear vengeance.
Rumors of “Neo-Blakists” found to be groundless.
Two more groups claim responsibility for death of Steiner-Davion.
Two more groups. That brought it up to eight. If these groups were to be believed, a small army had invaded Victor Steiner-Davion’s home on the night of his death.
She quickly scanned the text of the message below the header. She’d never heard of the two groups. But then, she’d never heard of Kerensky’s Bastards before yesterday, and today she knew at least one Knight was convinced that they were plotting to bomb the Geneva offices of Prefecture IX within the next week.
She scanned the evidence compiled in the letter. It was all rumor, circumstance and innuendo, but it was piling up to the point of being pretty damn impressive. The Knight wanted a militia squad to root out the threat, and Heather decided he’d earned it.
“Paladin GioAvanti!” Duncan, an intern, stood at the open door to her office as if a force barrier prevented him from going further. Heather waved him forward. He approached her desk like a deacon walking to an altar.
“Stone’s Cutters are holding a rally in Founder’s Plaza this afternoon,” he said in urgent tones.
“I thought that was Stone’s Legacy.”
“Yes, Paladin. The Cutters are joining them.”
That wasn’t good. Stone’s Legacy was usually content just to demonstrate, but the Cutters preferred more violent confrontation. Still, they were a small group. “Alert the police. They should be able to keep a lid on it on their own. But keep an eye on the situation.”
“Yes, Paladin.” He hurried away, then stopped at her office door. “Oh, I should mention, a messenger arrived with a summons from Exarch Redburn. He would like to see you in his office as soon as possible.”
Heather was out her door almost before Duncan. One of these days, she thought, I’ll have an intern who doesn’t almost forget to tell me about meetings with the Exarch.
While she waited for Redburn, Heather’s noteputer beeped three more times, each with a supposedly urgent message about unrest in the capital. The general public might not be able to vote in this election, but they seemed determined to participate.
When she had a brief moment between messages, she scanned the newssheets for any word of progress into the investigation of Victor Steiner-Davion’s death. They reported no progress, and continued to not mention the name of Paladin Jonah Levin. His ability to fly below radar was impressive, as always. At this point, Heather thought, I may be one of three people besides Jonah who knows he’s working on this. But that couldn’t last—the only way Jonah could continue to maintain complete secrecy is if he didn’t do anything.
The Exarch hurried in at last, looking frustrated and a bit out of breath.
“Paladin GioAvanti!” he said, as she rose to greet him. “Allow me to apologize. I was ambushed by a flying squad of tri-vid reporters and cameramen, and I had to give them a statement before they’d let me go.”
“The perils of high office,” she said.
“It would be worth it if I could believe the people actually listened to anything from the news,” he replied. He waved at the chair she had just vacated. “Please. Sit down.”
She sat down.
“So,” she said. She was a Paladin; and she was near enough in rank to the Exarch that she didn’t need to stand on her dignity around him. “What more can I do to serve The Republic today?”
“Have you been keeping up with the newssheets?”
“Some,” she said.
“What have your sources told you about the riot in Plateau de St. Georges?”
“It wasn’t good. Three dead, and people are blaming Capellan nationalists. It’s not doing much to make anyone feel more secure.”
“Have you heard anything about who may have planned it?”
“Planned it?” This took Heather aback. “Everything I heard pointed to it being a spontaneous disturbance.”
“It may not be. What do you know about the Kittery Renaissance?”
Heather sank into her chair. The dark leather harrumphed. “Oh, God.”
“Exactly.”
Heather had been receiving updates on the Kittery Renaissance for months. Unlike other insurgent organizations, Kittery wasn’t flashy; they didn’t act as if they were desperate for attention. Their actions were precise, focused and always aimed at sensitive targets. Though they were known to be associated with the Founder’s Movement, their exact goals and reasons for doing what they did were unclear. They would have been on the top of Heather’s list of Dangerous Operatives except for an unaccountable silence that had overcome them in recent months.