The mutter of the holograph's activation pulled Saxon's attention away, and he watched as a vector-scan model of a blunt, modernist building
sketched itself in the air before them.
Jaron Namir stepped up to the edge of the nimbus of laser glow; the colors threw stark highlights over his craggy features. "Intelligence has
located one of our high-value targets," he began. "Here. The Hotel Novoe Rostov, off Zubovskaya Square." He touched a control and the image
blurred, re-forming into a series of phantom panes. Several of them showed digital photos of a heavyset man with a beard and thinning hair.
"This is the mark. Mikhail Kontarsky, a minister of the Russian federal assembly, and senior administrator of the RFS committee on human
augmentation policy."
Saxon raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing.
"This man is corrupt to the core" Namir went on. "He's betrayed his country and the people who elected him. Kontarsky has been suborned by
an organization called Juggernaut. What we know of them is this: they are a decentralized anarchist terror group that uses information warfare
to further an antiglobalization agenda. Neutralizing Kontarsky is a first step toward eradicating these dangerous militants, and it will deny them
a conduit into the Russian Federated States."
The Juggernaut name was familiar to Saxon. He recalled intelligence briefings from his time with Belltower; one of the targets of the group had
been Tai Yong Medical, a major client for the PMC's security division.
"So the Russkies are incapable of dealing with Kontarsky themselves?" said Hardesty, throwing a look toward Federova, who ignored it. "Why
do we have to intervene?"
"Because the man is a point of instability, in a kleptocracy masquerading as a government." Namir paged through more images. "Kontarsky is a
wild card. He has many friends in the duma—the parliament... That's why Juggernaut has turned him. He has to be removed."
"That would mean terminated," Hermann asked, "if we are being clear?"
Namir nodded once. "Make no mistake, we are dealing with a dangerous man here. Kontarsky is connected to several Russian organized crime
syndicates. He's no choirboy."
Saxon peered at the screens, catching glimpses of elements from the politician's file, evidence of corruption and money laundering scrolling past
his eyes.
"Mission data is being downloaded to your personal stacks," said Namir. "Draw weapons for a covert urban assault from the armory, and
assemble on the tarmac in five minutes for deployment."
Saxon followed Hermann aft, turning the briefing over in his mind. "Taking down a member of the Russian ministry ... Am I the only one who
has questions about that?"
The German threw him a look. "If Kontarsky is a target, I trust the reasons are sound."
"Do you?" Saxon hesitated. "You've been with the outfit longer than me. Don't you wonder who gives the orders?"
"Namir gives the orders," Hermann said flatly.
"But who gives them to Namir?"
The other man walked on. "It is not something I trouble myself with, Saxon. Sometimes it is necessary to operate in the shadows to maintain
the status quo. That is what we do."
"But still-"
"Still what?" Saxon turned to find Namir standing behind him. "Do you need a reason, Ben?
Look at Kontarsky's files. He's not an innocent man."
Saxon paused, studying the Israeli. "Who is?" In such close quarters, his thoughts couldn't help but turn again to wondering who would prevail
if the two of them faced off. It would be an even match, Saxon thought. At first.
Namir glanced over Saxon's shoulder as Hermann passed through into the aft compartment, leaving them alone for the moment. "Juggernaut is
a clear and present danger to global stability. They have to be dealt with. You understand that, yes?"
"I understand that someone is threatened by them," Saxon replied. "Tai Yong Medical? Others, maybe?" It was a clumsy attempt to gauge a
reaction, and he knew it, but Namir gave him nothing.
"Have you ever wondered why Belltower's intel during Rainbird was so wrong?" The question came out of nowhere, and Saxon blinked.
"Juggernaut are info-terrorists, Ben. Along with all the other brushfire wars and proxy conflicts they have a hand in, they're working with the
Australian Free States. Conducting pay-for-play cyberwarfare on their behalf, compromising data security, disrupting intelligence gathering.
The men Kontarsky is working with are the ones responsible for your squad dying out there in the desert." Namir paused to let that sink in. "Is
that reason enough for you?" he asked gently.
CHAPTER FOUR
NYPD 10th Precinct—New York City—United States of America
The coffee helped, but not enough. It was strong and tar-black, and it tasted awful, but the stew of day-old caffeine and stale sugar gave Kelso
something to focus on.
The metal chair she sat upon, its twin across the way, and the table bolted to the floor were all the interview room had that could be considered
furniture. The polymer cuff around her right hand was tethered to a loop in the tabletop, her other hand free to toy with the paper cup. Light
came from a glow strip sealed behind armored glass, and high up over the lintel of the door across from her, the glassy fish-eye dome of a
camera pod watched her, unblinking.
Anna knew things were going poorly when the cop who escorted her up from general holding didn't ask any questions. He just secured her, gave
her the coffee, and left. Now she was marking time until the door opened again.
As if the thought of it were enough to make it happen, the metal hinges creaked and there stood the man she least wanted to see in the world.
Ron Temple threw a weak smile at the man by his side. "Thanks, Detective. I'll take it from here."
The other man eyed Anna, and walked away without a word. Temple dropped heavily into the vacant chair as the door locked shut behind him,
placing a silver briefcase on the desk. He was tired, eyes bloodshot, still wearing the big, high-collared greatcoat he sported on the streets of
D.C.
Anna imagined he'd come straight here, after he heard.
"What the fuck are you doing, Kelso?" he asked in a low, weary voice. Anna blinked; she couldn't recall Temple ever cursing like that before in
front of her. He went on. "Do you have any idea of the kind of depths of shit you are in? No, don't bother to answer that. Of course you do.
Because you're an agent of this nation's highest-profile law enforcement agency, and not an idiot."
"I had my reasons," she managed.
"This is not a conversation!" he thundered, his annoyance bubbling over. "You do not get to justify this kind of stupidity!" Temple hesitated,
and looked up over his shoulder at the camera eye. The indicator light showing that the monitor was active winked out, and he turned back to
face her. His expression was conflicted; anger in there along with disappointment, sadness, and other things she couldn't read.
"You've put the Service at risk, Anna. Not just yourself, but all of us. I've had to call in a dozen markers from the NYPD to make this go dark, do
you understand? As far as our flatfoot cousins are aware, your little excursion up here was a deep cover surveillance operation, and that's how
it's going to stay. I'm damned sure I don't want New York's finest figuring out that an agent of the United States Secret Service was conducting
an illegal, unsanctioned investigation!"
"It was the only way ..."
He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I know about everything. After I got the call, it all started to make sense. I had Drake and Tyler trawl your
files. You've been using your access to the DOJ network and Nat Crime databases to pursue unlawful searches, hiding it from all of us while you
let your actual assignments slide."
She didn't look away. Every word of what he said was true. For the past few months, ever since she had signed back on to active duty after the
shooting, Anna Kelso had been digging into the investigation surrounding the Skyler hit and the identity of the assailants—despite orders to
leave it to the team handling the incident. The case was closed; good leads took the agency to three associates of the Red Arrow triad, but they
had all perished in a police shootout before arrests could be made. Strong evidence mounted up after the fact, placing the suspects as the black
armored men in Washington.
Kelso hadn't believed any of it. The triad connection was a blind, she knew it in her gut.
Someone else had been responsible for the murder of Dansky, Matt Ryan, and a handful of other good agents; but that was a minority opinion
in an agency that just wanted to bury its dead and move on.
Temple's ire lessened, and he sighed. "I blame myself for this. I should have seen the signs. I should have known you weren't ready to return to
operations."
"Don't talk about me like I'm ..." She stumbled over the word. "Weak"
"Do you really think raking over the ashes of what happened six months ago is honoring Matt Ryan's memory?" He shook his head. "Can you
imagine what Jenny and her kids would think about this?"
"You don't understand!" she insisted.
"I do," he insisted. "I know what Matt did for you, Anna. I know how much he meant to you." Temple opened the case and drew out an
evidence packet containing her personal effects. He fished inside and came back with a clear plastic bag; within was the rodlike shape of an
injector pen, along with a couple of drug ampoules. "And I know how disappointed he'd be to see this. How long have you been back on stims?"
Kelso's mouth flooded with saliva at the sight of the injector, and it took a physical effort to look away. "I'm not using again. It's not the same."
Her cheeks burned. "I just needed to stay on top of things ..."
"I would like to believe you." He tapped the bag. "Frankly, this alone is enough to have you cashiered, maybe even net some jail time." Temple
pulled out a data slate, and studied it. "Ryan got you a second chance after you were suspended for use of stimulants three years ago. If not for
him, your career would have been over." He put it down. "This is worse than just backsliding, Anna. This is a lot worse. You've become erratic,
even obsessed. You're unstable."
"I want justice!" she shot back, pulling against the restraint. "The attack on Senator Skyler was a false flag operation! She was never the target,
it was Dansky all along, and we got caught in the cross fire!" "I read your report," Temple said. "There's nothing to back that up. And the case is closed. The men who killed Ryan and the others are dead."
"I don't believe that." Anna leaned forward. Why can't he see? "Division turned down my requests to reopen the case, so I looked into it myself.
Dansky wasn't the only one ... There are others, important people, scientists and corporate executives, other politicians, even United Nations
ambassadors ... all of them targeted by assassins with a similar MO—"
"You can't know that!"
"The same men who killed Matt are still running free!" she spat. "I've been trying to find something, anything, a name ..." Anna suddenly
realized how she had to look, the wild intensity in her eyes; she swallowed hard and tried to calm herself. "That's why I came here, to deal with
the hackers on the Intrepid. They could get me data that was off the grid. Get me names."
"Or maybe they were just playing you?"
"Tyrants." She said the word like a curse.
Temple eyed her. "What?"
"That's what they call themselves. The killers." She frowned. "If I can track them, find out who they are working for—"
"That's enough!" Temple slammed his hand down on the table. "Those hackers you were caught with? Half of them are known associates of a
global cyberterrorist cell, a group called Juggernaut. They're on the National Security Agency's most-wanted list, for god's sake. Think, Kelso!
Can you imagine what would happen if a Secret Service agent was connected to people like that?" He shook his head again. "I saw your requests
to Division, that paper-thin garbage you called evidence. You were turned down because you have nothing but supposition and hearsay. At
best, you've got a half-baked conspiracy theory! I kept the heat off you out of respect for Matt, because I knew his death hit you hard. But
you've crossed the line."
Anna felt a chill run through her. "So ... What happens now?"
Temple folded his arms. "If things were different... I'd charge you myself. But the fact is, what with that pit bull sniffing around the Service
looking for some dirt, the agency needs to keep this in-house." The "pit bull" was Florida governor Philip Riley Mead, who was working the
angles on Capitol Hill, using every trick he could—including pouring scorn on the DeSilvio administration by shining a light on every mess he
could find. Some people called him a crusader for good, speaking about him taking the Oval Office for himself one day; but Kelso just saw a
bland, opportunist politician who was nothing but good teeth and hollow platitudes. "We're going to deal with this quietly," Temple went on.
He handed her the packet and then drew a thin envelope from the pocket of his coat. Inside there was a credit chip and an airline ticket.
Temple fixed her with a steady, measuring gaze. "Your badge and ID have already been deauthorized. I've reclaimed your service firearm. As
of this moment, you are officially on medical suspension. In a month, when this has all been forgotten, a closed-session review of your conduct
will be held, and you will be discharged from the Secret Service, forfeiting pension and all privileges. At the very least." He stood up. "The ticket
will get you back to Washington. Do yourself a favor, Agent Kelso. Go home. Let this go. Let Matt go." He gathered up the evidence bag with the
stims and grimaced at it. "And don't make things any worse for yourself."
After he left her alone, the restraint loop gave a buzz and fell off her wrist. Anna picked up the packet and something slipped out. A brass coin
clattered to the table; her sobriety chip. For a long moment, she thought about leaving it where it had fallen. Angrily, she snatched it up and
jammed it in her pocket.
Zubovskaya Square—Moscow—Russian Federated States
The night-black helo circled once over the buildings along Burdenko Street, the ducted rotor-rings turning, the sound-deadening baffles
humming. The boxy little flyer hugged the angular tops of the offices and apartment blocks, skimming over old tiled roofs cheek-by-jowl with
modern polyglass domes and sheets of solar paneling. The nose of the craft dipped as Hardesty dropped from the starboard side; then they
were rising up and away, describing a wide circuit around the lines of the plaza at Zubovskaya.
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