Deus Ex - Icarus Effect (36 page)

say any more. They're the ones pulling the strings, signing the death warrants, fronting the cash ..." He sneered. "I've heard the name. Some

bullshit secret society, something outta trashy thrillers ... only not." The soldier considered it. "Makes a cold kinda sense, when you think about

it. Ghost orders and missions that never were ... men and women sacrificed for the sake of keeping the shadows long."

"If what Janus says is true, these people are positioning themselves to manipulate ... everything. The future of humanity. The creation of a new

world order."

"Maybe so." Saxon looked back at her. "But you want to know something?"

"Go on." Kelso clasped the heated coffee can, drinking in the scant warmth from it.

"I don't give a fuck about all that shit." He shook his head. "I'm a blunt instrument, me, I'm not a clever bastard like the kid or Lebedev." Saxon

nodded toward the others. "I've got a very simple need, and it's the same as yours. I want some bloody payback."

She looked away. "I... I'll tell you what I need, what I want. I want my life back. I want to go home. I don't want to have to know any of this!"

Her voice rose suddenly. "Because now I can't walk away!"

"Ignorance is bliss, isn't it?" said another voice. Saxon looked up as D-Bar approached. He looked pale and sweaty.

"Anyone ever tell you it's rude to eavesdrop?" Saxon retorted.

"Please," said the young hacker, "I spend my life finding out other people's secrets." But almost as soon as he said the words, his bravado

disintegrated; and suddenly Saxon remembered that he was looking at a boy still in his teens, just a scared, cocky kid who was only now waking

up to the fact that he was in way over his head. "Makes you wish you could just erase the data in your brain, right?" he was saying. "Search and replace 'Illuminati.' Go back to being one of the happy cattle."

"You really mean that?" asked the woman.

The more he watched D-Bar, the more Saxon saw how shaken he was. "I... I've been going through the files we got, the fragments we could

salvage. You wouldn't believe the stuff in there. Hints about the things they got planned. The things they've already done. We're not just talking

JFK and Roswell here, I mean this is big ..." His eyes lost focus and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Majestic 12, the United Nations, the WTO ...

They're so big. Every time you think you've seen the top, but it's all just layers and other layers!" D-Bar caught himself and blinked. "I mean,

how can we fight that?"

"We break up their game." Saxon's reply was iron hard. "They think they got a clear hit on Taggart? Not today." He got to his feet. "Today we

got the edge."

"How's that?" asked Kelso.

He smiled wolfishly. "They think you're hiding in fear. They think I'm a dead man. So they'll be looking the other way when we stick a knife in

them."

The countryside was dark and shrouded by heavy storm clouds, masking the approach of the airship. The transfer was swift, the massive craft

moving low with all running lights extinguished, drifting along the center of the river to match pace with a long cargo barge steaming north

toward the Swiss capital. On descenders, Powell and his men led the group to the deck of the vessel, and Anna looked up as her feet touched the

rain-slick metal. In the night's gloom, it seemed an impossible sight; the airship a featureless black cloud among gray companions, rising in

silence amid the wind. In a few moments it merged with the overcast skies and was gone as if it had never been there. The rain came harder,

and she pulled her hood tight over her head, hurrying below.

Inside the barge were five more men; they all had the same aura as the New Sons, the same wound-tight aggression simmering just beneath

the surface, the same eternally alert manner of the career renegade. All of them were armed and showed off augmentations to a greater or

lesser degree. Powell shook hands with their leader, a rail-thin man with unkempt, greasy hair and a ragged beard. He had implants covering

his eyes, like frameless glasses. They were dark and reflected no color.

He extended a hand to Kelso and she shook it. "Welcome to Switzerland," he said. The accent was French, but she picked up inflections that

suggested he'd been educated in the States. "I'm Croix. You've brought us something interesting. The information on the hit is confirmed?"

"It's solid," said Powell, looking around. "Where's the rest of your people?"

"Standing right in front of you," said the Frenchman. Before Powell could argue he went on. "We have our own operations in progress. And this

is extremely short notice."

"You understand how important this is?" A nerve jumped in Powell's jaw. "The reason we're moving so fast on this is precisely because we have

an unparalleled opportunity here. A chance to get the drop on the Tyrants!"

"Uaccord" said Croix, stepping closer to Saxon, "but we don't have the manpower or the money that you do, my friend. We have to pick our

fights."

"You're members of L'Ombre," said Saxon. "I read the file on you guys when I was at Belltower."

The name rang a bell with Anna; L'Ombre was on Interpol's watch list as a known militant activist group in mainland Europe, linked to a

number of incidents with an antiglobalization agenda. But given what she knew now of a clear connection between them and the New Sons of

Freedom, she wondered how accurate that intelligence really was.

Croix allowed a smile. "Do we get good press?"

"Not really," he admitted. "They wrote you off as day-players."

The other man's smile vanished. "Their mistake. We're in this fight for the duration, believe me." He looked Saxon up and down. "So you're the

turncoat, then? Lebedev told me you'd be joining us. Should I trust you?" His hand slipped to the revolver holstered at his belt.

"Your call, mate," Saxon offered. "But I don't think Lebedev would have shipped me halfway around the world just for you to kill me."

"True," said Croix.

"He helped us get the data on the Taggart hit," said Anna, uncertain why she felt compelled to defend the man.

Croix glanced at her. "And you. You're the fugitive. Interesting choice of recruits, Powell."

"That's one way of putting it," said the other man. "So, can we cut to the chase here? What do you have for us?"

Croix snapped his fingers and one of his men produced a laptop. D-Bar immediately crowded in, studying the device. "As I said, we lack

manpower but we make up for it in other areas. L'Ombre has access to certain sources of electronic intelligence."

"What do you mean?"

D-Bar sniggered. "According to this, the Swiss sat-comm network has more holes than ... well, you know, the cheese."

"We exploit them," said Croix. "As such, we've been able to track two distinct encrypted communications nodes that have appeared in the

Geneva area."

"They match what we have on record," said the hacker. "It's the Tyrants. They're here, all right."

Anna felt her pulse quicken, and she stepped closer to look at the laptop. "You're telling me you can read their communications?"

"Of course they can't," D-Bar snapped irritably. "Quantum coding crypto? Don't be stupid!"

"But we can recognize their presence. It's a fingerprint," said Powell.

Croix's smile returned. "Oh, we've done better. We have locations."

"How'd you manage that?" Saxon raised an eyebrow. "Namir's team don't make mistakes."

"People get lucky sometimes, Saxon," D-Bar broke in.

Croix nodded to the man with the laptop, who brought up a series of digital maps. "One of the communication nodes remains static at the

airport."

"Must be the jet," said Saxon. "Namir uses it as a command post."

"The second," Croix went on, "is mobile." He said something in French and the other man used the computer to show grainy footage from what

appeared to be a traffic camera. "A delivery vehicle. It's been making a circuit of the city."

"Cleaning the route," said Anna. "Making sure he's not being tailed, before ..."

"Before what?" asked Saxon.

Powell folded his arms. "That's what we need to find out." He was silent for a second. "All right. We need to do this right now. Take the vehicle

and the jet at the same time. We don't know what we're dealing with, and we can't afford to wait and watch."

Anna saw something on the video footage that sparked a cold tremor of recognition within her. She moved closer, peering at the images.

"Taggart does not speak until midday," Croix was saying. "They won't move against him until then."

"Are you sure? Do you want to take that risk?" Powell insisted.

"The plane will be the harder target, though, right?" said D-Bar. "And if Saxon is right, if that's the control..." He swallowed. "Look, with this

setup I can monitor the van from here—"

"No," said Powell. "It has to be a simultaneous takedown."

"The kid's right, though," offered Saxon. "That aircraft will be heavily defended. You try to storm it with anything less than a full team and the

Tyrants will cut you to ribbons."

"Croix." Powell turned to the Frenchman, considering the other man's words. "Get us an entry into the airport. Then set up a vehicle so we can

at least tail the mobile. I'll lead the team against the jet. Saxon will come with us."

Anna heard him talking but she registered what he was saying only peripherally. "I'll take the van," she said. "Get me close and I'll take him."

Saxon's brow furrowed as he heard the raw fury bubbling up inside her words. "Kelso, what is it?"

She pointed at the screen. "You know him?" On the monitor, the blurry image of a man's face had been captured by one of the traffic cameras.

He wore a bandage over one eye and a cap.

Saxon gave a wary nod. "He's German, former GSG-9. Gunther Hermann."

The name echoed in her mind. Hate, cold and hard like black diamond, grew solid in Anna's chest. It was the same man from that horrific day in

Georgetown. The killer who had left her for dead, who shot Byrne and Dansky ... and Matt Ryan.

Geneva International Airport—Grand-Saconnex—Switzerland

"There," said Saxon, pointing into the gloom. "Hangar four."

Beside him, Powell squinted down the eyepiece of a monocular. "That's a Belltower aircraft."

"It's them" Saxon insisted, studying the shape of the parked jet. "I'm not seeing any movement, though. They have to be inside."

Powell spoke over the general comm channel. "All right, listen up. Two entrances, one gangway at the forward hatch, another drop-ramp at the

aft. You know the drill. Move in, neutralize any threats. Fast and efficient." He glanced at Saxon. "Stay where I can see you. Croix may want to

give you the benefit of the doubt, but he's not me."

Saxon shrugged. "Whatever you say."

"All units," Powell said to the air, "take the plane. Go, go!"

They covered the distance to the far hangar in a few seconds, veering from shadow to shadow, avoiding the footprints of security cameras.

Saxon had to admit, for a group of irregulars, the New Sons had the makings of a good spec ops team; but he wasn't convinced they'd be enough

to deal with the Tyrants.

Not that survivability was foremost in his mind at this very second. All he cared about was finding Jaron Namir, and ending his life.

There were active boxguard robots scanning from the corners of the hangar interior, and Powell's men went after them with Pulsar grenades,

shutting them down with flashes of electromagnetic discharge. Saxon hesitated at the foot of the gangway, glancing back down the line of the

plane to where the cargo bay doors were wide open. He toggled his mastoid comm. "Any unit at the rear: is the helo in place, over?"

He got a reply immediately. "What helo, over?"

"There should be a small veetol flyer stowed back there—"