Saxon followed her into the water. His hands brushed the deck beneath them and found the edges of the hatch.
Together, they pulled at the latches as the water around them churned and boiled.
Namir turned the helo in a tight orbit over the Icarus, but it was difficult to make out anything. Thermals from the raging fires buffeted the
flyer, and he didn't dare venture too low, as gas tanks in the midsection began to combust one by one, lashes of orange flame jetting into the air
as the heat broke them open.
The yacht's bow crumpled and fractured down the length of it. The craft was taking on water as fast as it was burning, and it would be a race to
see which would claim it first.
He looked over his shoulder at Federova, who scanned the blazing wreck down the sights of a heavy battle rifle.
"Anything?"
She gave a curt shake of her head, and Namir knew she was itching to rake the craft with a hail of 5.56 mm rounds, just to make certain that
the Icarus was Ben Saxon's grave.
"Company!" Barrett called out to him and pointed across the lake.
Namir glanced back and saw the blue-and-white hulls of the police patrol boats cutting through the wave tops toward them. "Time to go," he
said, and grabbed the helo's throttle, pushing it forward to maximum. The flyer's nose dipped down and Namir guided it through the clouds of
fire smoke, and away toward the far coastline.
Under cover of destruction, the Tyrants vanished.
The Icarus perished with a final, spasming explosion as the diesel fuel reached combustion point and flashed into fire. The blast took the yacht
apart and rained fragments down in a cascade of shards and flaming debris. Anyone caught on board would have been killed instantly, ripped
apart or burned to ashes.
Beneath the surface of the lake, the concussion resonated through the water and beat at Saxon and Kelso, a heavy hammer of force battering
them down into the depths.
Saxon lost control and tumbled; blue-water ops had never been his thing, and now the pain and the hurt and the fatigue all combined with the
blast to rob him of his last breaths, the oxygen in his lungs streaming from his mouth in a gush of bubbles. He was going to drown, and there
was nothing he could do to stop it.
Then Anna was there, her arms snaking around his back, pulling herself close to him, fighting the undertow to draw them together into an
almost intimate embrace.
Through his clouded vision he saw her face, milk-pale like some ghost come to claim him. Over her shoulder he saw other shadows, other men.
The dead and the gone, the true ghosts beckoning him to join them. He reached out, and tried to speak. I'm sorry, he wanted to say, I let you
down.
Anna's face closed in and she pressed her lips to his, cupping the back of his skull, pushing them together.
The kiss was like an electric shock; and then from it new breath flooded into his mouth and his lungs, trickles of bubbles escaping as Kelso gave
up her air for him.
Pressed to him, he felt something flutter against his chest, something beneath the flesh of Anna's breast; a rebreather implant. She turned her
head away, peering through the murk as they drifted there, gently exhaling, breathing without breathing before she turned back and gave him
another moment of life. The implant could act like a small reservoir of air if needed, increasing lung capacity against gas effect, suffocation ... and
drowning. He had trusted her, and now in turn she saved him.
Saxon saw her face, saw the pain hiding beneath the surface, the scars that didn't see the light of day. They were alike, the two of them. Both
damaged by the same lies, both survivors of it. Both haunted.
Beneath the shroud of flame across the surface of the water, between the shafts of light and the fall of the wreckage, they held on to life, and to
each other.
Eiffel Tower—Paris—France
The private elevator took him to the second tier of the tower, which, as he had expected, was closed to the public for the duration. The
restaurant Jules Verne was equally empty, the only figures moving between the tables a discreet pair of young waiters who doubtless had been
thoroughly vetted for their reliability.
DeBeers dismissed his men with a glance and they found themselves somewhere to stand, out of his sight line. He crossed to the table where his
colleague was waiting. Morgan Everett got up, extending a hand and warm smile, framed against the windows and the view of the Champs de
Mars beyond.
"Lucius," he began. "It's good of you to come. It's been a while."
"Since we were face-to-face? Indeed." DeBeers took his hand and shook it. "You look well, Morgan. Paris agrees with you."
That got him a smile in return. "This city has always been important to the group. And the truth is, a lot of things here agree with me." Everett
gestured to the chair across from his and they sat.
DeBeers found the glass of Les Forts de Latour waiting for him and considered it. "How is Elizabeth, by the way?"
"She sends her best," said the other man. "She has other obligations." He nodded toward the waiters. "I hope you don't mind, but I took the
liberty of ordering for you." "I trust your judgment," he replied. "So, this is just the two of us, then?"
Everett sipped his wine and leaned forward. "You're not going to pretend you thought it would be anything else?"
"I suppose not," DeBeers allowed. "I'm concerned that the council might be dismayed at the thought of us meeting in secret."
"To conspire?" Everett chuckled. "Lucius, you've been an excellent teacher all these years, and one lesson I learned very early on was that
there is an elite within the elite."
"Some believe that," he agreed. "Page and Dowd."
"Bob Page has enough to do with the biochip initiative and his projects at Majestic 12." DeBeers detected a note of irritation in his old friend's
voice, but chose not to comment on it. "And dear old Stanton won't leave New York for anyone."
"True enough. Still, it's a rare occurrence for any of us to meet in the flesh. It's simply not done."
Everett laughed again. "I know, it's almost reckless, isn't it? I quite enjoy the thrill." He sobered. "But the Illuminati own Paris. We have
nothing to fear here." He took another taste of his wine. "Speaking of which. The events in Geneva—"
DeBeers waved him into silence. "I have a considerable amount of influence in that city. I've made sure the blame was laid firmly at the feet of
L'Ombre. The explosions at the airport and the bridge, the assassination attempt, the sinking of the yacht..."
"Yes, such a pity about the Icarus."
"I have others. The vessel was a liability, anyway. It might have been connected to me eventually."
"Of course." The appetizers arrived and they ate for a moment before Everett spoke again. "I asked you here, Lucius, because I wanted to
discuss the juncture we find ourselves at, without the ... the distraction of other voices. We've recruited so many people to the group recently
and I miss the clarity of our more direct discussions." He gestured airily. "It's not just Page and all his ambitions. Our lady friend from China,
the scientist..."
"I concur," said DeBeers. "We have so many endeavors. Sometimes it is difficult to juggle them all."
Everett nodded. "Exactly. Some of the group forget that the current undertaking is only one of many lines of influence in development. Let's not
forget the work on the HIV cure, the D-project, and the fault-line venture in California ..."
"All equally important, I grant you," he replied. "But the biochip is where our focus should be."
"An
d we are on course?"
DeBeers nodded. "Obviously, there was a need for some compartmentalization of events from certain subordinate members of the council. But
you can rest assured that the pattern of influence fell more or less exactly where we wanted it to. As always."
"The United Nations have agreed on the need for a referendum, then?"
He nodded again. "I was informed of that fact just before I left Switzerland. The attempted murder of Taggart was enough to push them over
the edge. That, along with our other vectors of influence and the recent decision by Senator Skyler to come around to our way of thinking,
brought us the desired result."
Everett cocked his head. "What happened at the Palais ... Did you really intend that to succeed?"
DeBeers allowed himself a smile. "Either way, it would have been win-win, Morgan."
"I see. That explains your, shall I say, prudence?"
He went on, paraphrasing the report that Jaron Namir had given him in the weeks after the incident in Geneva; although the Tyrants had lost
half their agents, they had still been able to complete their mission objectives. The mistake of recruiting Saxon had been erased and Hardesty,
while useful, was not irreplaceable. Remarkably, Gunther Hermann had been recovered alive—although severely injured—from the waters of
the Rhone by MJ12 operatives. It was a testament to the German's strength of will that he had survived a bomb blast, but the detonation had
rendered him physically crippled and heavily burned. DeBeers was aware that Page had already co-opted Hermann, for extensive
reconstructive surgery and induction into a cybernetic mech-augmentation program. Perhaps, in time, he would be ready to be redeployed.
"The fact is," DeBeers concluded, "the question of the global regulation of human augmentation technology is now unavoidable, and we have
positioned ourselves to take full advantage of the situation. The result will be a forgone conclusion."
"The best kind," said Everett, saluting him with his glass. "And our larger plans move on with only minor alterations. Excellent." He paused.
"Still. There are issues yet to be resolved. Those children in the Juggernaut Collective, for example."
DeBeers shook his head. "We've dismantled that little gang of data thugs. Those who aren't dead are on our payroll. And as for their friends in
that separatist rabble ... We'll keep them around. Use them for our own purposes."
"The operative with the attack of conscience, Saxon? And the Kelso woman?"
"They haven't resurfaced, both figuratively and literally. But then, Lake Geneva is quite deep."
Everett accepted this and studied his mentor for a long moment. "You've yet to mention the hacker. What does he call himself—Janus?"
DeBeers frowned. "Gone. Silent. None of our concern, for the moment." He drew himself up, dropping the mannerisms of a friend in
conversation with his best student, and his behavior became more authoritative. "There are other matters of more importance to attend to.
Like the work of Reed and the team from Sarif Industries."
"Of course, Lucius," said the other man. "I appreciate the opportunity for ... clarity." He looked up as the waiters returned with the main
course, and with a nod he had the server pour a fresh measure of wine into each of their glasses. Everett raised his and smiled. "To the future, then?"
"The future," said DeBeers, savoring the moment.
Santa Lucia—Guanacaste Province—Costa Rica
The hamlet was a small place a few miles past the outskirts of the main township, little more than a collection of homes and buildings clustered
around the road in the lee of greenery and the encroaching edges of the jungle. Aside from the gray discs of satellite antennas and snarls of
telephone cables webbing the redbrick buildings together, the scene was as it would have been twenty, maybe even forty years ago. It was
basic and unhurried, and a long way off the grid.
The man and the woman who arrived were not locals, and some of the children who played in the street took it upon themselves to follow the
pair of them, measuring these blancos and wondering who they were. The big man was an hombre de la maquina like they saw in the action
vids, and they were wary of coming too close. The braver of the boys told the others that they heard men like him had chips in their heads that
could read your thoughts and arms that could rip apart a car. The woman, she was different, her blond hair pulled back tight in a ponytail, the
color turning back to brunette at the roots where the dye job was fading. She wore mirrored sunglasses and a wide-brimmed bush hat that did
its best to hide her face from the world.
At the Duarte house, the two new arrivals were greeted with a strange mixture of emotions. The big man was welcomed like a cousin, with a
tearful hug from the mother and a sad, knowing nod from the father. Samuel Duarte's parents both wept a little, but they thanked the big man
and brought him inside, the woman following a few steps behind.
The children who asked questions about the couple in the earshot of adults were told to be quiet and speak no more of them. These people were
friends, and that was all that mattered. They had come here to be away from the questions of others, and everyone in the village understood
that.
Anna sat on the balcony as the sun set and stared out into the green; in the distance the color bled away to a gray-brown haze where the jungle
ended in the maws of the mammoth logging camps, in the shadow of the mountainside. One hand she kept balled in a fist, resting on her lap. It
was as if she couldn't remember how to unclench it.
She looked away and found Saxon, offering her a brown bottle of some nondescript local beer.
"Thanks." She took a long pull. "Are we good?"
He sat next to her, making a face as he pulled on the sutures in his belly. "We're good. This place is not on anybody's radar, you can be sure of
that. It's ..." He smiled ruefully. "It's just a barrio rattrap. No one knows who you are down here." The smile faded. "We're outta their reach.
That's what you wanted, yeah?"
She nodded. Fleeing from Europe, there had been many places they could have gone to ground, but something dark and potent inside Anna
Kelso had driven her to seek sanctuary as far away as she could go. Somewhere off the map, far from cities and the threats of what she saw
when she dreamed.
He was watching her. "You'll be okay here."
Anna put down the bottle. Something in his tone rang a wrong note. "I will? And what about you?" When he didn't answer she glared at him.
"You're not going to stay?"
He shook his head. "Job's not done, Anna. Namir and those bastards he works for are still out there, still playing their games ... I can't look
Sam's family in the eye and know that I let Namir keep breathing after I let their son down."
She moved closer to him. "Redemption, that's what you want, isn't it?" Anna sighed. "So do I, for Matt. But I want it for myself as well..."
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