James Swallow - Deus Ex - Icarus Effect

“Likely,” Saxon agreed, with a grim nod. “She enjoys the close-up work.”

“Got something,” D-Bar announced. On the screen, a single blue-haloed file moved to fill the image. The image seemed grainy and hazed. “Parity is starting to drop quicker than I expected. Better make this fast.”

Powell stepped closer to read the data presented before them. “Operative ident ‘Red’ tasked to shadow target-designate ‘Alpha,’” he read aloud. “Action: terminate with extreme prejudice.”

“That’s it,” said Lebedev. “But who is Alpha?”

“Gimme a second…” D-Bar typed in a few commands, and on a tertiary screen a new image appeared; a publicity still of a man in his sixties, with gray hair and glasses. He wore a dark suit and an expression of patrician earnestness, both of which were impeccably tailored.

Anna had seen him before, from a skybox balcony in downtown Washington. “That’s William Taggart. He’s the founder of the Humanity Front.”

Saxon raised an eyebrow. “What, that anti-augmentation bunch? The ones always whining about ‘science gone too far’?”

“Why would the Tyrants be targeting him?” She turned to Lebedev. “He wants the same thing as the ones holding their leashes! Restriction and regulation of human augmentation technology. Why kill him?”

“More important,” Powell broke in, “why haven’t they done it already?” He glanced at Saxon. “This Federova woman. If she’s already shadowing Taggart, could she ice him?”

He nodded. “In a heartbeat. She’s a phantom. Could make it look like natural death and no one would ever know she’d been there.”

Anna saw something on Saxon’s face as he said the words. “What is it?”

“Powell’s got a good point. If Taggart’s the next mark, why isn’t he a corpse?”

She studied the image for a moment, thinking back to what she recalled from the last series of briefings she’d had at the agency. “Search for a connection between Taggart and the United Nations,” she told D-Bar.

New data unfolded before them. Anna saw images of the Palais des Nations, the foundation and European headquarters of the UN in Geneva. “There’s stuff here from a sealed memo to the Secret Service from the U.S. State Department,” said the hacker. “Designating Taggart as a citizen of note. He’s going to be part of the American delegation in a meeting with some of the movers and shakers at the UN.”

“The vote,” Lebedev muttered. “Taggart’s going to the United Nations to spearhead the push for a ballot on augmentation control.”

Saxon gave a dry chuckle. “Huh. Oh, yeah, now I get it. Makes sense.” He glanced at Anna. “You want to know why Taggart is still breathing? Because they don’t want to kill him quietlike. They want to do it out in the open, in front of people. They want an event.”

“The founder of the Humanity Front, murdered by an augmented killer in full view of the global media, on the steps of the Palais des Nations…” Powell shook his head. “Can you imagine the fallout from that? Taggart becomes a martyr to his cause. His organization already has a lot of momentum. They lead the charge and do the work of the Illuminati for them. It’s brilliant.”

“Who?” Saxon asked, catching on the word, but Lebedev spoke over him.

“It’s what they do. They find others and manipulate them into following their agenda.” He frowned. “How long until Taggart arrives in Geneva?”

“His flight lands in Switzerland around midday our time,” said D-Bar. “According to this, eighteen hours later he’s at the UN to give his speech. We got less than a day before they waste him.”

Powell drew himself up. “We’ve got to stop the kill from going down.”

Lebedev nodded. “I’ll contact our colleagues in France, get them to mobilize.”

“That won’t be enough,” Powell insisted. “We need to be there. I’ll assemble a unit. You get us some transport.”

Anna watched the other man mulling it over. “All right,” he said after a moment. “It can be done.”

Powell gestured toward Saxon. “I want him to come with us.”

Saxon snorted. “You trust me now, all of a sudden?”

Powell ignored the question. “He can provide visual identification of any Tyrant operatives.”

“Fine by me,” grunted the soldier.

Lebedev nodded again. “Agreed.” He turned to the hacker. “D-Bar, gather your gear. You’re going along as well.”

D-Bar’s pale face flushed red and he blinked. “What? Why? No!” He shook his head. “I can do this from—”

“No arguments!” insisted Lebedev. “We can’t go in without an information warfare specialist. You’re always telling me how good you are—now you can prove it.”

D-Bar jabbed a finger at the screens. “What, this wasn’t enough for you?”

“Cheer up, son,” Saxon offered. “You’ll get to see it from the sharp end for a change, yeah?”

Anna listened to the interchange and it was as if she were falling away from it all, being left behind with every passing moment. When she spoke, the words came of their own accord, without her conscious control. “I’m going, too.” Anna searched herself for a good, convincing reason, but she came up empty. All she could grasp was the distant, undying anger deep in her chest.

Powell shot her a look. “No. We don’t need you.”

“How about she goes and I stay?” offered D-Bar.

“I have to!” she insisted, with a force that came from nowhere. Anna went on, her voice rising. “I’ve been chasing the Tyrants for months! I’ve thrown away everything—”

“Kelso is right,” Saxon broke in abruptly. “She should be part of the team. We can use her.”

“How, exactly?” Powell demanded.

Saxon made a look-see gesture. “She saw the faces of the Tyrants. Two sets of eyes, mate.” He gave Anna a look that was unreadable. “Right?” he asked her.

“Right,” she repeated. “Yes.”

Powell seemed as if he was about to argue, but Saxon gave him a look and tapped his wristwatch. “We don’t really have time to waste arguing, do we?”

“Get the veetol and head for the shore,” said Lebedev, ending the debate. “I’ll contact you with the details once you’re airborne.”

Cape Charles—Virginia—United States of America

The veetol was an old air-ambulance model stripped to the bare metal, a bulky and ungainly thing like a fat gull borne up on bright thruster nozzles that spat exhaust from the wingtips. They flew fast and low, following the line of the canal from Baltimore, until the river mouth opened up before them. Saxon felt it in the pit of his gut as the veetol rose up in a near-vertical ascent, trading altitude for thrust. He made an attempt to glance out the porthole; along with the Kelso woman and the hacker, Saxon was crammed into the rear of the flyer with Powell and four of his men from the New Sons. None of them looked like soldiers of any stripe he thought worthy of the name; they had a different air to them, which reminded him of the feral intensity of the gang kids he’d grown up with on the streets of North London. He pegged them for ex-cons or militia types. Kelso sat with her head down, lost in her own thoughts.

D-Bar gave him a smile that was all fake bravado. “What’s wrong? Don’t like flying?”

Saxon didn’t allow himself to dwell on the similarity between this veetol and the one he’d rode into the wilderness six months ago. “Something like that,” he offered. It was a tight fit in here, and he was starting to get tired of it. “Hey, Powell!” He had to shout to the other man to make himself heard over the roar of the engines.