The Archon Sequence Box Set

THE ARCHON SEQUENCE BOX SET

BILL DESMEDT

CONTENTS

Singularity

Bill DeSmedt

Introduction

I. Crom

1. Proliferation Threat

2. Resource Recovery

3. Schwarzschild Radius

4. Reacquisition

5. Interview with the Shaman

6. Our Ship Comes In

7. Mythologies

8. Press Gang

9. Ghost

10. A Visit to the Smithsonian

11. The Beast of Evil Heart

12. The Illusion of Choice

13. Puttin’ on the Ritz

II. Rusalka

14. Hull Number Forty-Seven

15. Patterns

16. Idyll

17. Buy-In

18. Night Moves

19. Party Animals

20. Alive!

21. Raise the Titanic

22. Departures

23. Armageddon

24. Night on the North Atlantic

III. Antipode

25. West with the Night

26. Bell’s Inequality

27. Harm’s Way

28. Flight Plans

29. Discovery

30. Midnight To Dawn

31. The Way to Weathertop

32. Doomsday Scenario

33. Hackers

34. Spin Doctor

35. Closed Timelike Curve

36. Big Bang

37. Dry Run

38. Welcome Back

39. Descent

40. Project Report

41. The Singularity

42. A Stitch In Time

43. Le Mot Juste

44. Last Row on the Chessboard

45. Mopping Up

Epilogue

Dualism

Bill deSmedt

Prologue

I. QuMRANN

1. Freddie’s Game

2. In the Dark

3. Good Intentions

4. Decrypt

5. Witness

6. Traces of Intelligence

7. Nowhere Man

8. Meeting of the Minds

9. Valentine’s Night

10. Realities, Virtual and Otherwise

11. Wedge

12. Aftermaths

II. Little Girl Lost

13. WISP of Dread

14. Back to the Salt Mines

15. Lots Better

16. The Gods Themselves

17. The Trouble with Omniscience

18. Going Rogue

19. Little Girl Lost

20. The Watches of the Night

21. Status Epilepticus

22. The Big Clock

23. Hypothermia

24. The Green Flash

III. Imaginary Friends

25. Nightwatch

26. Rock Salt

27. Two-Eleven High Street

28. Original Sin

29. Breaking and Entering

30. Active Denial

31. Keys to the Kingdom

32. One MERGE to Rule Them All

33. And in the Darkness Bind Them

34. Heaven and Hell

35. Mind-Body Priblem

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Triploidy

Bill DeSmedt

Book Description

Prologue

I. Arrival

0700 Hours: Into the Light

0800 Hours: Consult

0900 Hours: Weird Friends

1000 Hours: StarChild

1100 Hours: Urgent Care

1200 Hours: High Noon

II. Transfer

1300 Hours: The Emissary

1400 Hours: Check-In

1500 Hours: Yet Another Weird Friend

1600 Hours: Cult Classic

1700 Hours: Boilerplate

1800 Hours: Nuclear Option

III. Raid

1900 Hours: Logistics

2000 Hours: Hors de Combat

2100 Hours: Surprise Packages

2200 Hours: Ramp Up

2300 Hours: Back in the Game

2400 Hours: Midnight

IV. Transfiguration

0200 Hours: I Corinthians 15:51

0300 Hours: The Shepherd

0400 Hours: Mea Culpa

0500 Hours: Come, Let Us Reason Together

0600 Hours: The End of All Things

0700 Hours: Dawn’s Early Light

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Afterword

The Other Afterword: Kaylie’s Gifts

About the Author

If You Liked …

SINGULARITY

BILL DESMEDT

Singularity

Copyright © 2018 Bill DeSmedt

Originally published by Per Aspera Press 2004

Dualism

Copyright © 2018 Bill DeSmedt

Originally published by Per Aspera Press 2014

Triploidy

Copyright © 2022 William H. DeSmedt

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-1-68057-398-5

Cover design by Karawynn Long

Cover artwork images Karawynn

Kevin J. Anderson, Art Director

Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers

Published by

WordFire Press, an imprint of

WordFire, LLC

PO Box 1840

Monument, CO 80132

Join our WordFire Press Readers Group and get free books,

sneak previews, updates on new projects, and other giveaways.

Sign up for free at: https://eepurl.com/c_lmZP

INTRODUCTION

THE TUNGUSKA EVENT

June 30 th 1908

Suddenly the sky split in two, and high above the forest the whole north of the sky was covered with fire.

— S. B. Semyonov, eyewitness

The remnant had sailed the empty spaces between the stars since time began. Had journeyed far, far in space and time from its birth at the beginning of all things, far from its forging in the primal fires of Creation.

There was no destination on this voyage, though there were occasional ports of call. Here and there throughout the void tiny orbs circled their parent primaries, huddled close against the cold and the dark. Most such solar systems were bypassed without incident. Still, every once in an eternity, some unlucky world would chance to swim out into the remnant’s path.

As one is doing now.

In this, the summer of 1908, there is no science or technology anywhere on earth that might avert the impending catastrophe. Heavier-than-air flying machines have only just begun their conquest of the skies, while space flight remains but a distant dream, the exclusive province of visionaries like Jules Verne and Herbert George Wells. The controversial theory that the entire physical world might be made up of tiny particles called ‘atoms’ is still waging an uphill battle for scientific acceptance, against the strenuous opposition of influential physicist-philosopher Ernst Mach. It will be another fifteen months before a young Albert Einstein will leave his safe berth at the Bern patent office and devote himself fulltime to generalizing the theory of relativity he first broached a mere three years ago. For all the secrets that nature has yielded up in the two centuries since Newton, the scientists of earth still stand helpless before the threat posed by the remnant.

But they can, just barely, detect its approach.

In the main physics lab at Germany’s Kiel University of Applied Science, beginning at six in the evening on June 27 th and continuing over the following two nights, Professor Ludwig Weber has been observing faint but regular disturbances in his magnetometer readings. After ruling out streetcar vibrations and Northern Lights, he concludes that a powerful magnetic point-source must be nearing the earth from somewhere out in space. But when Weber points the observatory telescope at the likely region of night sky, he sees — nothing.

What could be close enough and charged enough to interfere with the magnetic field of the earth itself, yet remain invisible to the most sensitive instruments early twentieth-century optical technology can muster? This is the question that confounds Weber throughout the evening of June 29 th as he watches the magnetic disturbances grow in strength. He is still wrestling with the riddle when, at 1:14 on the morning of June 30, 1908, the frenetic jitter of his magnetometer needle comes to a sudden dead stop.

Six time zones to the east of Kiel, far out on the Central Siberian plateau, there yawns that vast, silent emptiness known as the Stony Tunguska basin — three hundred thousand square miles of watershed, peopled, even in this eighth year of the new century, by fewer than thirty thousand souls. Here, in this land of expatriate Russian frontiersmen and nomadic Evenki tribes, there are no telescopes, no magnetometers, precious little technology of any kind. Here in Tunguska, nothing but a dying shaman’s vision has foretold the remnant’s coming, and nothing more than the naked eye will be needed to witness its arrival.

Here in Tunguska, the morning of June 30 th has dawned bright and clear, scarcely a wisp of cloud in the sky. By seven, the sun has been up for hours, banishing the chill of the brief subarctic summer night, promising another sweltering noontide. Herds of domesticated reindeer, lifeblood of the Evenki nomads, are already grazing on new shoots in the thickly-forested taiga. Dense veils of mosquitoes swarm the pestilential bogs of the Great Southern Swamp. The living world goes on unchanged, just as it has for centuries. All this despite the shaman’s warning.

Perhaps no one finds more comfort in the very ordinariness of this fine summer morning than a young Evenki herdsman by the name of Vasiliy Jenkoul. For today Jenkoul must tend to his father’s southern herds. And that will mean riding down the long Silgami ridge, directly into the Tunguska heartlands.

Directly into the lands where — to believe the shaman’s deathbed prophecy — on this morning, the great god Ogdy, Old Man of the Storms, will send forth his thunderwinged minions to visit death and destruction upon the clans of the Stony Tunguska.

7:14 A.M. The forest falls silent. Even the ceaseless susurration of the Great Swamp’s insect life fades. Far off in the southeastern skies, clearly visible in broad daylight, a bright blue star appears.

The remnant is close now. Four hundred miles out and a hundred miles up, just beginning to brush the lower edges of the ionosphere. The resulting shockwave fluoresces in the ultraviolet. Thickening atmosphere absorbs the radiation and re-emits it at longer wavelengths. Trailing a plasma column of cerulean blue, it descends.

Scattered outposts throughout the sparsely-inhabited Tunguska region awaken to a cannonade of sonic booms echoing down from the cloudless sky. Villagers pour into the streets to watch in amazement as a blindingly bright blue ‘pipe’ bisects the heavens. Old women burst into tears, crying that the end of the world has come.

Fifty-seven miles southwest of ground zero, on the outskirts of a ramshackle of sod-roofed wooden huts that styles itself the Vanavara Trading Station, Semyon Borisovich Semyonov is sitting on his porch, trying to tamp a new hoop onto a cask of flour using nothing more serviceable than an axe. Nothing to be done for it; out here on the taiga one learns to make do with what is to hand. If you have no plow, you must furrow with a stick, as the Siberians say.

He fumbles the hoop into position. There. He is just raising the axe for a final blow, when the sky brightens directly overhead.

Semyon arrests the axe in mid-swing and looks up. The sky — the sky splits in two! A broad streak of impossibly brilliant blue cleaves it from south to north. Semyon clambers to his feet. As he watches, the blue line touches the horizon.

The closest human being to the event this summer morning is not Semyon, but a young Evenki herdsman. Yet, with his view of the heavens obscured by dense forest canopy, Jenkoul is the last to see it coming. Nor, even in this eerie silence, will he hear the rumble of its approach, for the remnant’s speed far exceeds that of sound. No warning will have a chance to reach his senses, before —

Impact!

A patch of sky framed by the empty arms of a blighted birch suddenly flares blue-white. Jenkoul reins to a halt, begins to dismount, and is nearly thrown from the saddle as the first in a series of thunderous concussions hits him.

Ogdy! The Old Man of the Thunder has unleashed his terrible winged minions against the clans. Peal after peal deafens Jenkoul, as all around him ancient stands of larch and pine crash to the ground, uprooted and smashed flat by the hurricane-force blast wave. Beyond toppling trees, a mountains-high tongue of flame reaches up.

Ogdy is kindling his lodge-fire in the heartlands of the Stony Tunguska.

Only the lore of the Evenki saves Jenkoul now. It is said a hunter caught in the open by a blizzard can survive by hunkering down alongside his mount, using its body as a shield against gale-force winds. Perhaps this will work for fire as well as ice. Jenkoul yanks his steed to the ground and cramps into the lee of its torso. The thunder is one continuous roar. Jenkoul exhales and holds his breath, lest his lungs be seared by the superheated air now washing over him.

Fifty-seven miles away, at Vanavara Station, Semyon’s axe clatters to the floor. His eyes squeeze shut against a flash too bright to look at. The northern half of the sky erupts in flame. The sky has split open, and, in opening, has disclosed not the heavens, but the fires of hell.

Semyon opens his mouth to call out. A monster wind stirs the trees. Suddenly he is running off the porch, tearing at his clothes. His shirt is smoking, so hot it burns his skin. As Semyon clears the stoop, the blast wave hits. It picks him up and flings him like a rag doll all the way across the yard. Fissures open in the ground around him. Flat on his back now, it is all he can do to throw an arm across his face and block out the sight of the hideous sky.

Directly above ground zero a pillar of fire punches a path twelve miles up into the stratosphere, creating a partial vacuum at the blast site that sucks thousands of tons of earth and ash skyward. A churning black pyroclastic column ascends fifty miles into the sky, pumping tons of particulate matter into the upper atmosphere, to an altitude where the mesospheric air currents can sweep it up and circulate it around the world.

Sunlight scattering off the high-altitude debris will paint the night skies with noctilucent clouds. In London on the night of June 30 th the air-glow illuminates the northern quadrant of the heavens so brightly that the Times can be read at midnight. In Antwerp the glare of what looks like a huge bonfire rises twenty degrees above the northern horizon, and the sweep second hands of stopwatches are clearly visible at one a.m. In Stockholm, photographers find they can take pictures out of doors without need of cumbersome flash apparatus at any time of night from June 30 th to July 3 rd. These strange ‘white nights’ will continue, gradually fading in intensity, throughout the month of July 1908. Scientists across Western Europe, unaware of events thirty-five hundred miles to the east, are at a loss to explain the phenomenon.

But here in Tunguska, where the cause is clear, the sky is far from bright. Darkness descends at mid-morning, as the heaviest clumps of dirt and ash precipitate out in a black rain.

The force of the blast continues to propagate outward, though it must traverse hundreds of miles of taiga before coming into contact with the first outposts of twentieth-century science. At the Irkutsk Magnetic and Meteorological Observatory, the free-swinging weights of hermetically-sealed Repsold balances chart the onset of a massive earthquake five hundred and fifty miles to the north. Instrumentation as far west as the eastern seaboard of North America will soon follow suit.

But it doesn’t take a seismograph to detect these seismic effects: Close in, the isolated encampments of the Stony Tunguska clans are smashed flat, their birchbark choums sent flying as the subterranean pulses slam into them. Further out, houses sway and windowpanes craze throughout a circle two hundred fifty miles in radius, centered on ground zero. On the newly-completed Trans-Siberian railway line three hundred seventy five miles southwest of The Epicenter, a locomotive screeches to a halt lest it be thrown from the tracks by the tremors; the terrified engineer tells the conductor to get out and check for signs of a boiler explosion.

Magnetometers at Irkutsk Observatory, five hundred fifty miles due south of ground zero, record the raging of an unprecedented geomagnetic ‘storm,’ beginning at 7:23 a.m. local time, and lasting nearly five hours. Echoes of the storm are picked up at the observatory at Pavlovsk, on the outskirts of St. Petersburg two thousand five hundred miles away. Even as far west as London, the Times will report a slight, but plainly marked, disturbance of the magnets on Tuesday night. The next time the world will witness disruptions of the earth’s magnetic field on such a scale will be in 1958, following the detonation of an H-bomb at Bikini Atoll.

Moving at the speed of sound, a massive airborne shockwave thrums the coda to the event. Thirty minutes after and two hundred miles downrange of the impact, the barometers at a backwoods meteorological station in Kirensk record its passage. It will reach Irkutsk Observatory a quarter of an hour later. Attenuating with every mile, the concussion still retains enough energy to be heard as distant thunder a thousand miles away.

And even after dropping below the threshold of audibility, the pressure wave travels on. When it finally dies out twenty-five hours later, it will have circled twice around the globe, and left traces of its passage on barographs in Potsdam, London, Washington DC, and Djakarta.

Miraculously, the event has expended its fury on one of the most desolate regions on the face of the globe. Had the impact occurred five hours later, the earth’s rotation would have shifted the impact zone to the outskirts of populous St. Petersburg, and the death toll would have risen into the hundreds of thousands.

But, here in Tunguska, the only human casualties are from secondary effects: heart attacks and strokes suffered by a few of the Evenki tribesmen closest in. No one has died as a direct result of the catastrophe’s hellish violence.

Jenkoul uncrouches from behind the steaming carcass that had been his mount. The young Evenki braces himself and — slowly, so as not to inflict further torment on his parboiled flesh — rises to his feet. In so doing, he attains what is now the highest vantage on the ruined Silgami ridge. The old-growth forest that had soared above his head has been leveled to the ground. He can see the whole of the sky.

And, in that sky, a towering black column shot all through with lightnings — the lodge-pole of Ogdy — rises up and up forever.

In years to come, a multitude of explanations would be advanced for what became known as the ‘Tunguska Event.’

Most scientists initially assumed a giant meteorite had crashed that summer morning in the forests northwest of Vanavara Station. That hypothesis stood unchallenged for the nearly two decades that separated the event itself from the first on-site investigation of it — two decades during which scientific inquiry languished in Russia, preempted by war, revolution, and socio-economic upheaval. The few expeditions that did set forth in the intervening years were forced to turn back when their Evenki guides refused to enter the blast zone, fearing to trespass on the abode of the storm-god Ogdy.

Finally, in 1927, a team of researchers headed by mineralogist Leonid Kulik reached the site of the impact, where surrounding hills cupped the sloughs of the Great Swamp to form a landscape Kulik dubbed ‘The Cauldron.’ The Epicenter itself was easy enough to identify: For hundreds of square miles all around the Cauldron, across an area half the size of the state of Rhode Island, the ancient forests of the taiga had been scorched and flattened by the blast. Hundreds of thousands of trees had been toppled like matchsticks in all directions, forming a radial ‘throw-down’ pattern in the shape of a gigantic target, with the impact site at the bulls-eye.

But, in reaching ground zero at last, Kulik had dealt a death blow to the meteorite hypothesis he himself espoused. For there was no crater.

With a yield of forty megatons — thousands of times more powerful than the atomic bomb dropped decades later on Hiroshima — the explosion should have gouged a hole in the earth’s crust to dwarf the mile-wide, 500-foot-deep Great Barringer Crater in Arizona. Instead, what Kulik found at the very center of the blast pattern was a peat marsh contorted into a nightmare landscape. The solid ground, he wrote, heaved outward from the spot in giant waves, like waves in water, as if stressed by some unimaginable force.

With on-site observations all but ruling out the meteorite-impact hypothesis, the Tunguska Event became fair game for ever more bizarre conjectures: The collision of the earth with fragments of a comet? A solar plasmoid ejected by the sun? The crash of a nuclear-powered alien spacecraft? A chunk of infalling antimatter?

Not to mention, of course, the Evenki nomads’ steadfast conviction that Ogdy had vented his wrath on the clans of the Stony Tunguska.

But perhaps most outlandish of all was the explanation concocted some six and a half decades after the event, by two young astrophysicists at the University of Texas in Austin. Writing in the September 14, 1973 issue of Nature, Albert A. Jackson, IV and Michael P. Ryan, Jr. had the audacity to theorize that what had struck the earth in June 1908 was a remnant of the Big Bang. That the bizarre circumstances of the impact all pointed to a cause that could only have been engendered in the unimaginable heat and pressure attending the birth of the universe itself.

— That the Tunguska Event was nothing less than a collision between the earth and a submicroscopic black hole.

Bill DeSmedt

April 2004

PART 1

CROM

JULY 27TH–29TH

Present Day

My own suspicion is that the universe is not only stranger than we suppose, but stranger than we can suppose.

— J. B. S. Haldane

1

PROLIFERATION THREAT

Marianna Bonaventure eased through the access door and out onto the roof of 17 State Street. She paused a moment for breath, and visuals. To one side, the mirrored façade of a setback penthouse held only her own reflection — a slender figure in black body armor with helmet to match. Straight ahead, nothing but an arc of deserted skyterrace and, beyond it, the forty-one story dropoff down to Battery Park. No one, and nothing, in sight.

They’d gotten past her somehow.

Or not. Audio was picking up what sounded like the prole and the extractor, talking in low tones somewhere past the curve of the penthouse curtain wall.

Marianna smiled behind the helmet’s silvered plexiglas visor: Gotcha! Then she frowned. This was going to be almost too easy. From the top of this gleaming column at the southernmost tip of Manhattan, there was simply no place left to go. Her quarry had already run out of island, and now they’d just run out of sky.

What kind of an extractor paints himself into a corner like that?

She’d find out soon enough. Marianna darted across twenty feet of rooftop garden and into the cover of the penthouse. She hugged the glass wall, began inching along its length.

One of the voices had started yelling. Still couldn’t make out words. They’d be in Russian anyway.

Marianna risked a look, then ducked behind an art-deco heat-exchanger hood, out of the wind and line of sight.

Because there, silhouetted against a wedge of Lower Manhattan skyline, stood her wayward prole — the proliferation threat she’d chased through downtown’s dog-day streets.

Seen by the flat, filmy light of a late July afternoon, the prole looked deceptively nonthreatening. Looked like what she was: a frightened, middle-aged woman.

Looked hardly at all like a renegade WMD researcher out to sell her expertise in weapons of mass destruction to the highest terrorist bidder. Which was also what she was.

The extractor, the big guy hired to snatch the prole out from under CROM’s bodywatch, stood beside her. He was the one doing all the shouting, most of it directed at an unwieldy contraption of fabric and aluminum tubing propped against the guardrail.

That explained some of it.

Compliance? Marianna whispered into her helmet mike. Got the prole up here.

There was a barely perceptible pause, then the man from the New York Compliance office came back. On the damn roof?

The extractor’s got a hang glider, looks like.

You’re shitting me. How’d he get it up there?

Don’t know. Maybe — Marianna glanced around, spotted a double door further down the penthouse wall. There’s a rooftop elevator. He could have broken the thing down, bagged it, brought it up that way. It’s just ...

Just what?

Just I don’t get where he thinks he’s going with it. The park’s staked out, and there’s nothing but river beyond that. Even with a twenty-to-one glide ratio and the weak westerlies of a summer afternoon, that rig would never make Jersey. Unless —

Now she could hear it: the sputter of a ten-horsepower motor firing up. It’s not a glider, it’s an ultralight! They’re good to go.

Let them. They can’t hide from the spystars.

Guess again. Marianna was looking at more bad news on her wristtop display. Alpha set ninety seconds ago.

Damn! How long till Beta’s overhead?

Seven minutes. Too long. Whoever’d planned this extraction knew exactly where the holes were in CROM’s piggybacked satellite surveillance.

Okay, sit tight — I’m on my way.

But Compliance was down at street level. By the time he could get here, her quarry would be long gone. And, with them, her last hope of making the Grishin case stick.

It was going to be up to her.

Compliance was still talking. Don’t go trying anything stupid now, Bonaventure. Not when all you’re packing is that damned toy. I’ll be —

She cut the connection then. But he was right: She’d been going by the book, and for urban engagements the book mandated non-lethal armament only.

Hence, her Squirt gun — a second-generation handheld version of the antipersonnel web-cannons in use since the mid-90s. When it worked, which wasn’t always, it shot out fifty square feet of ruggedized microfilament coated with fast-drying binary adhesive. Ensnared in the stickyweb, a perp would be down for the count and gift-wrapped to boot. It had all sounded good on paper.

Out here in the field, she’d have given a month’s per diem for a twin to Compliance’s unauthorized Glock. Book or no book.

Oh, hell, here goes. She stepped away from the wall and brought the flared muzzle of her ‘toy’ to bear. Hold it right there!

The perpetrators froze. She edged toward them through rippling ninety-degree heat. Sweat trickled down along her ribcage under the stifling Vectran body armor. Her forehead was bathed in perspiration. A droplet felt poised to run into her eye, but she’d have to lift the visor to wipe at it.

Just a little further.

The prole raised her hands. Behind her, Marianna could see the extractor fiddling with some sort of handheld. He looked up. Marianna glimpsed a raw-boned, dark-complected face. Through wraparound goggles, cold black eyes stared back at her.

Unnerving, that lifeless gaze, like looking into the eyes of a predator. Marianna felt the gun tremble in her hands. As if scenting her fear, the man grinned at her — a feral grin, widening to reveal two steel-crowned upper canines.

It was like looking death in the face.

Marianna shrank back. Her stomach knotted. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, priming her whole body for flight.

No! She was not going to panic. She planted her feet, steadied the non-leth, and squeezed the trigger.

The Squirt gun emitted a hollow click.

No canister chambered.

The damn thing had malfed again. She slammed a small fist against the side of the barrel, pulled the trigger a second time. Nothing.

Still grinning, the man punched a button on his handheld. The elevator doors at her back slid open. Marianna whirled at the sudden hiss, but there was nothing there — not even an elevator. The penthouse express that her fugitives had commandeered was gone. She could hear it hurtling down to street level, leaving behind forty stories of empty air.

She turned back just in time to see the extractor raise a gun and fire.

A sledge hammer slammed into the pit of her stomach. Another, driving all the breath from her body. But — no worse, thank God! Her Vectran body armor, the same stuff they made the Mars rovers’ hard-landing airbags out of, was living up to its advertising, absorbing the brunt of the bullets’ impact. Too bad it couldn’t dissipate their momentum as well. A series of body-blows pummeled her, propelling her backward, back toward the waiting maw of the empty elevator shaft.

For an instant that stretched to an eternity she teetered on the edge, fighting to regain her balance. Fighting and losing. Gravity seized her in its unrelenting grip.

Fetid air swirled around her as she fell, the square of light from the open door above her receding fast, faster.

Oh, God! Only one chance! Marianna gripped the Squirt gun in both hands and fired it at a passing stanchion. Please, please — work this time!

The gun kicked in her hands. Compressed gas exploded from the canister and propelled a spray of microfilament out through the expansion chamber at forty-five meters per second.

The stickyweb snagged the stanchion, the binaries fused, and — it held.

And — she held. Her hands tightened on the weapon’s grip as deceleration shock tried to wrench her arms from their sockets. She slammed into the near wall hard enough to rattle her teeth. Still she held on, still alive. For the moment.

Numbers stenciled on the opposite wall told her she’d halted her descent at the thirty-seventh floor. The Squirt gun and holster ensemble were interlocked with her body armor, helping bear some of her weight. Still, both hands clutched the butt of the weapon in a death grip. Scarcely daring to breathe, Marianna dangled above the abyss, a pendulum on borrowed time.

Her helmet headset had been knocked askew, but not so far that its mike couldn’t pick up her voice.

Compliance ... need help! Come ... get me!

She told him where, between gulps of machine-oil flavored air. But ... call Building Services first. Tell them ... Lock down ... the penthouse elevator. She couldn’t see the elevator car where it had come to rest more than five hundred feet below her. The extractor might have deactivated it to prevent reinforcements arriving, but no sense taking chances.

A hiss from above her. Four stories up, the elevator doors were closing again. Through them she could hear the engine’s drone rise to an angry buzz. The ultralight was taking off for the wilds of New Jersey. Taking her prole with it.

Guess they hadn’t run out of sky after all.

One more thing, then. Compliance? See if you can raise HQ. ... Tell Pete, tell him got to ... go with the Archon option.

Like the two before it, the third email incident of the day found Archon consultant Jonathan Knox in a very strange place — his own office.

Strange, because Knox’s clients usually demanded his full-time physical presence on their premises, consistent with their belief that they owned his ass. A not altogether unreasonable assumption, given the breathtakingly exorbitant rates Archon Consulting Group charged for the services of its most senior analyst. But it did mean that in an average year Knox saw the inside of his office about as often as the guys who came in to shampoo the wall-to-walls. And, like the carpet cleaners, he saw it mostly at night.

No one, least of all Knox himself, would have expected him to be sitting there midway through a midsummer Tuesday afternoon.

If he hadn’t been, there’s no way he could have found out that somebody was stealing his identity.

As it was, though —

You’ve got mail, the desktop announced.

Knox’s gray eyes, strangely old-looking for what was otherwise an almost boyish face, flicked from the five-hundred-page document in his lap to the little email icon now blinking in the upper righthand corner of the twenty-four-inch display.

Definitely weird. No one ever sent him email here at Archon, there wasn’t any point to it. Knox had been on assignment at Broadband Utilities Unlimited longer than most of BUU’s employees. Anyone who needed to reach him emailed him there.

Probably just a system glitch, like the first two.

Knox stretched his lanky six-foot-plus frame, tipped the contoured chrome-and-leather armchair back even more precariously, and returned his attention to the Functional Requirements spec.

That five-pound cinderblock of a document was his sole reason for being here. It would take total, Zen-like concentration to review it by the Friday drop-dead date, and BUU’s North Jersey headquarters was hardly conducive to that. The place was even more of a madhouse than usual this week, caught up in a paradigm shift of tectonic proportions as the latest management methodology-du-jour kicked in.

No, better the relative peace and quiet of his commodious corner suite at Archon’s New York headquarters, with its expanse of burgundy broadloom and its floor-to-ceiling view of the East River twenty stories below.

And its periodic announcements of email that wasn’t there.

If Knox had been engaged in anything more absorbing, he’d have ignored the interruptions. But whoever said ‘reads like a novel’ wasn’t talking about this Functional Requirements specification. He looked up, cleared his throat, and said Mack, open my mailbox, please.

A brief pause while Mack, Knox’s desktop computer, processed this utterance. Then: Your mailbox is empty.

Huh! And yet the incoming-mail icon was still blinking merrily away in the corner of the screen. For the third time since he’d arrived this morning, his system couldn’t seem to decide if he had email or not. Knox ran his fingers through his already unruly brown hair, thought a moment, then said, Mack, see if Bob is in.

In response, a videoconference window popped open on Knox’s screen, complete with the dreadlocked talking head of Bob Stevens, Archon’s system administrator.

Hey, Jon, Stevens’s grin was dazzling white in his dark face. You coming to the bash?

Huh? No, I was just calling in a couple rogue emails. Why, what’s up?

Boss man’s taking the gang down to Radio Mexico for quesadillas and Dos Equis.

That’s our Richard. In the fifteen years Knox had known him, Archon CEO Richard Moses had never passed up an excuse to throw a party.

But, still and all, Tuesday afternoon? Any particular reason?

We just won us a slice of the Psyche project. Word came in an hour ago, now it’s raining beer and nachos. You coming?

Sounds fun. But duty calls. Got to get through this thing — Knox thumped the Functional Requirements for emphasis — before I leave for London next month. Now, about my email?

First thing in the morning, okay? Stevens was already glancing off screen, toward his office door.

Knox grinned. Sure. Enjoy.

The window closed, leaving Knox alone with the BUU document.

He re-read the page he’d stopped on without any noticeable increase in comprehension. Something was nagging at him. He’d learned to trust that feeling.

What was the old saying? Twice is coincidence, third time is ... Knox snapped his fingers. Third time is enemy action!

Despite, or perhaps because of, having perpetrated more than a few email spoofs in his time, Jonathan Knox found he did not enjoy being made the butt of one himself. But that’s what it looked to be: Someone — one of the backroom code jocks, most likely — had hijacked his account and was carrying on an electronic correspondence pretending to be Knox.

Those bozos! All’s fair in love, war, and the pissing contest that had raged unchecked between Archon’s programming and consulting staffs since day one, but this crossed the line. Knox grinned unkindly as he contemplated various retaliatory options. Perhaps a Trojan horse?

Just then, his speakerphone beeped.

Jon, said the voice on the other end, Bag what you’re doing and come on down, boy! The slightly slurred baritone belonged to Richard Moses. Calling, no doubt from the Radio Mexico fête. Yes, in the background Knox could hear voices raised in off-key song, counting down A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall in hexadecimal notation. Programmers!

Which reminded him. I can’t right now, Richard. I’m hung up on something here.

He said goodbye and hit the off button. Best not to be too specific. For all Knox knew, Richard himself could be behind this — he was no less an arrested adolescent than the rest of the Archonites.

Knox could see them now, swilling brew, carousing, having a good laugh at his expense, while he —

Wait a minute. The Archon offices must be all but deserted, emptied at quarter of five on a Tuesday afternoon by Richard’s impromptu celebration. So, who was running the scam?

The few stragglers in sales and accounting didn’t count: none of them had the skill-set for a world-class goof like this. Even if the thing itself could run unsupervised, the fact remained that the culprit hadn’t hung around to see Knox’s reaction to the prank.

And that was just plain unthinkable. Knox had never aspired to membership in the coder fraternity himself, but he was an astute observer of its folkways. And not showing up to gloat once a trap had been sprung was, he knew, an unpardonable breach of alpha-nerd etiquette.

Can’t have been anybody here, then. What did that leave? It must be just a mail-server glitch.

But that old feeling — that sense of a larger pattern lurching around in the darkness behind the veil of immediate sense experience — wasn’t going away. On a hunch, Knox reconfigured his desktop to pull mail the instant it received notification. Then he waited.

Not for long. On the next ‘you’ve got mail’ announcement, he found himself staring at a system error: MAILBOX IS LOCKED BY ANOTHER POP3 PROCESS.

He tried retrieving the message manually. Now the mailbox was unlocked again. And empty again.

Enemy action! Somebody had installed a daemon in the server, an autonomous process that was intercepting his email. If it was a prank, it was a damned elaborate one. But it was looking more and more like identity theft pure and simple — the misappropriation of Knox’s cyberspace persona for purposes of illicit correspondence.

That correspondence, at least, was easy enough to trace.

"Mack, show me the IPM log for jknox@thearchongroup.com."

Archon’s central server came equipped with state-of-the-art Internet Policy Management software. Among other things, the IPM tracked all the emails moving into and out of the organization and could list them on demand. Not the message-bodies themselves, just subject-lines, senders, and addressees.

But that was enough. Considering Knox almost never used this account himself, the log should have come up empty. Instead it held eight or nine entries, the oldest of them — entitled ‘Long time no see’ — dating from this Sunday. That message, and about half the others, had been forwarded through the jknox account to someone called kosmo@gei.ru, and had originated from ...

Knox frowned as he read the sender’s address: reack2@crom.doe.gov.

doe-dot-gov? That was the federal government — the, um, Department of Energy. A quick websearch brought up the DOE home page, but there was no CROM listed among its agencies. An undercover op, maybe, and of some hitherto uncatalogued subspecies.

What had he gotten himself into here? Knox had pissed off a lot of people in his time, but that was just una cosa di biznes. And, anyway, he couldn’t recall any feds among them.

Why were the spooks messing with his email?

Damned if he knew, but he did know the quickest way to find out.

Mack, Knox addressed his computer again, — link in Weathertop, secure circuit. I need to talk to Mycroft.

Spooks or no spooks, somebody’s gonads were going to wind up stapled to his office wall tonight!

What was keeping the Compliance guy?

Marianna hung in near-total darkness, trying not to gag on the oily reek filling the elevator shaft. Trying not to think about how long the stickyweb would hold. The adhesive wasn’t designed to support a one-hundred-thirty-two pound load, was it? Not swinging back and forth?

Think about something else. Like what? Like how bad she’d wanted this first field assignment? And how bad she’d gone and screwed it up?

But it was her case, dammit. Her analysis that had tied the last two disappearances back to the shadowy Grishin Enterprises conglomerate, her late nights and weekends that had put CROM out ahead of the curve on this one.

She should have left it at that. She couldn’t. Call it a chance to settle an old score, call it a misplaced search for some sort of redemption, but she’d had to get out from behind her desk and into the field. She’d cashed in favors and half-forgotten promises, lobbied Pete mercilessly, all so she could be in on the bust. And now —

Where in hell was Compliance?

Look on the bright side. At least the email spoof was still running — going on two days now without a hitch. One thing that hadn’t gone wrong yet. And with any luck the mark wouldn’t catch wise till too late. By Thursday night, she should —

Wait one. What was that?

If she strained, she could almost hear — Yes, a rumble coming from below, faint at first, but growing with every second.

Oh, shit!

The power must’ve come back on before Compliance could find the cutoff. The penthouse elevator was beginning its ascent, building speed. It would be here in less than half a minute, moving fast as an express train — and she had no way to get out of its path!

2

RESOURCE RECOVERY

Compliance?

Marianna hung in the lightless shaft straining her ears for an answer. None came. The onrushing elevator car was very close now. She could make out the low-watt service lights set into the frame of its roof. Only seconds left.

She couldn’t die like this. Do something!

Compliance? What was the guy’s name again? Whitehead? Talk to me — I, I’ve got a situation here.

Keep your pantyhose on, Bonaventure, a voice crackled over her headset, We’re coming to get you.

Daring another glance down, scarcely daring to hope, Marianna could see the elevator slowing, slowing, easing to a stop inches below her feet. A muffled clang and a hatch opened in its roof.

Light poured up out of the hatch, catching Compliance’s angular features from below and twisting them into something vaguely Mephistophelean. He reached up for her.

Thought it’d be quicker this way, he said, helping her down into the car "No telling how long till the stickyweb broke. Then — splat!"

He wasn’t bothering to hide his smirk. She wouldn’t put it past him to have arranged that business with the elevator just now deliberately. A field agent’s way of showing the desk jockey with the fancy job-title her real place in the order of things.

Assistant Director, CROM Reacquisition. What a crock!

She was silent the whole ride down to ground level, afraid that if she spoke her voice might tremble. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the man from Compliance, just kept her eyes straight ahead. From the burnished surfaces of the elevator doors a woman in black body armor glared back at her — tall, slim, dark-haired, young.

Above all, young. Too young, maybe, to hack it, out here in the field.

The doors slid open. She followed Compliance out into a double-height lobby newly festooned with Day-Glo Police Line — Do Not Cross tape. They walked through the exit doors and out into the late afternoon heat.

Marianna jerked a thumb back at the growing police presence. Have you talked to NYPD?

We can’t bring the cops in on an extraction. You know that.

"Dammit, I’m not talking about need-to-know! The cops run a river patrol, don’t they? If not them, the Coast Guard. Somebody’s got to’ve seen which way they went."

Compliance paused beside the car. Face it, Bonaventure — that prole is long gone.

She got in and waited till he’d joined her. You’re calling it a handoff, then?

Yeah, might as well make it official. But — His hand hovered over the STU-IV keypad. You sure we don’t want to get our story straight first?

She shook her head. We’ll play spin control some other time. Just log the handoff so I can get started fixing this. If it was even fixable. If the black hats hadn’t already won, like they had eleven years ago.

With a shrug, Compliance punched in the code and nodded to her to jack in. Handshake tones fluted in Marianna’s headset as the Secure Terminal Unit negotiated a one-time encryption, then: Critical Resources Oversight Mandate. How may I direct your call?

Uh, this is Whitehead, New York Compliance office. I need to make a field deposition.

A momentary pause, then: Recording.

Right. As of — He glanced at the dashboard clock. — 5:23 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time, July 27 th, Compliance Directorate is transferring anti-proliferation action 04-057, Galina Postrel’nikova, to Reacquisition. Hardcopy follows.

If it hadn’t been her case before, it sure as shit was now.

Line’s still up, Compliance was saying, Want to talk to your boss?

In a minute. Marianna tabbed down the passenger-side window and stuck her head out. Her dark brown eyes made a futile scan of the empty sky.

Where in hell could her prole be going?

Natalya Petrovna Zolotova clutched frantically at the harness straps as the ultralight looped high out over waterfront towers and atriums toward the broad sweep of the river hundreds of meters below. She shrieked as the flimsy craft lurched sickeningly in the updraft from a rooftop airconditioning unit, stifled another scream when it dipped unexpectedly on entering the regime of cooler air over the water.

The rushing airstream bore her small cries away, rendered her terror inaudible even to herself.

Certainly the pilot gave no sign of having heard her. Natalya risked a glance over to where he hung suspended alongside her, so close she could have reached out and touched him. Not that she would have dared. If possible, she feared this grim-visaged man, this Yuri Vissarionovich Geladze, more than she feared falling into the river below.

And with good reason. He had killed that woman back there on the roof. Shot her as casually as one might shoot a stray dog.

Surely it had been a woman. The visor had concealed her face, but the body, stance, and voice were unmistakably female. The woman’s shouted English had gone by too quickly to register, but her brandished weapon had made the meaning only too clear: Natalya was being arrested. But for what?

All she had done — all! — was to leave Rusalka that morning and, on her way through customs, show the counterfeit passport she had been given. The passport with the photograph of Natalya’s own face above that other woman’s name. Galina something.

Yes, it had been wrong. But it had been her only chance to disembark and explore the great city rising into the sky beyond the 39 th Street pier.

And besides, what choice had she had? A lowly clerk-typist dared not disobey the orders of Vadim Vasiliyevich Merkulov, head of security for all of Grishin Enterprises International, and the third most powerful man on Rusalka.

Rusalka. Natalya squinted against the wind and turned her gaze upriver, up to where Rusalka’s shimmering white form towered over the ferries and dayliners, a visiting queen holding court amid the plebian denizens of the waterfront.

Any moment now, the glider would swing north toward the great ocean-going yacht. And once Natalya was back onboard, things would be all right again. It could all be fixed. Forged passports, a broken corpse at the bottom of an elevator shaft — no matter: GEI, the all-powerful Grishin Enterprises International, could fix anything.

Pray God, let it be so! Natalya willed her right hand to release its deathgrip on the strap. Just long enough to make sure that Mama’s locket was still securely nestled beneath her blouse. She clasped it to her heart for a moment, feeling its surprising weight again. Yes, thank God, it was still there — still safe.

A foolish indulgence. The simple silvery locket hanging in the window of the Eighth Avenue pawnshop had been priced at an unthinkable hundred and twenty-five dollars. And, bargain as she might in her halting English, the aged proprietor had refused to part with it for less than ninety.

Pure silver, he had claimed. But it didn’t have the feel of the silver tableware aboard Rusalka — too heavy. Could it be silver-plated lead? Fearful of being swindled in this strange city, Natalya had hesitated. But when the locket had opened to reveal, of all things, a little Orthodox cross engraved on the inside of the lid, she knew she was lost.

It would make a perfect gift for Mama — a gift to commemorate her youngest daughter’s day in New York.

A day that was ending. Natalya would be home soon. She braved a look down to see if they’d begun their descent. She saw huge tankers and container vessels plying the river below, each attended by a retinue of tugs. Saw the wakes of small, swift powerboats tracing their obscure calligraphies across the placid surface. Watched the pastel green of the Statue of Liberty, luminous in clear afternoon light, pass below immediately on her right.

Surely that was wrong. They must have missed their northward turn, continued out over the river and angled south. The expensive apartment buildings crowding the far shore, almost directly ahead of them when the flight began, had slid off northwards. In their place, the shoreline ahead now held what seemed to be an old, unreconstructed industrial quarter.

They were already much lower. The little motor was laboring to clear the roofs of the abandoned wharves lining this stretch of riverbank. They could not be going very much farther, but where —?

They spiraled downward into a wasteland of rusted storage tanks, junk-strewn empty lots, the burnt-out hulks of factories and warehouses — a no man’s land transected by truck-filled highways. Here and there, last-gasp urban renewal strove to stem the tide of post-industrial blight, manifesting in compact corridors of incongruously bright and cheery buildings cordoned off from the pervasive decay.

The ultralight was vectoring toward one of those islands of order amid the chaos.

Very close, almost directly below them now, she could see a wide, flat roof with a name painted on it in large white letters. In the Latin alphabet, of course, as everything here was, but Natalya could read it well enough: RESOURCE RECOVERY SYSTEMS, Inc.

And beneath that, somewhat smaller: BAYONNE NJ ENTERPRISE ZONE.

And beneath that? A logo of some sort. She couldn’t make it out from this angle, but its shape and color looked right. Her heart lifted in hope.

The ultralight overshot the roof and looped back toward it, lower and slower now, heading into the wind.

She started at a sudden sound. Her companion — silent ever since they had taken off from the tower — was shouting something at her.

Lower your legs and push back on the control bar, he was bellowing over the howl of the wind. No, like me. Watch, do as I do.

Natalya tried to copy his movements, letting her legs hang down as she straightened her arms against the control bar. The craft’s nose rose into the air. Their airspeed dropped to a stall as they skimmed the rooftop, its tarred blackness very close now, mere centimeters from the soles of their shoes. Closer, closer. Contact!

She nearly stumbled as her feet skidded on the bumpy surface, but the pilot compensated, taking the brunt of the landing with knees flexed and feet spread wide. He stood there a moment, then held the wingframe aloft with one arm as he shrugged out of his harness, motioning her to do the same.

Natalya looked around for the logo she’d glimpsed from the air a moment ago.

The mottled, uneven texture of the tarred roof made for a poor canvas. Even so, the bold, stylized lines were instantly recognizable: the great blue globe crosshatched with white striations of latitude and longitude, the continents of Europe and Africa outlined in a verdant green. And embracing the whole, completely obscuring the equator, an image out of myth — the emerald coils of a world-encircling serpent, its fangs sinking into its own tail. The crimson letters GEI arced over the north pole like an aurora.

At that moment, the corporate icon looked so radiantly beautiful she could have knelt down and kissed it. She slipped a hand beneath her blouse to pat the little locket once more in thanks.

Natalya had made it back safe after all.

You rang, Jonathan?

Knox looked over at his display and saw Finley ‘Mycroft’ Laurence peering at him from a conferencing window. Half an hour. Most callers wouldn’t have rated so quick a callback. Wouldn’t have rated real-time at all, just a GIF of an old TV test-pattern and instructions where to send an email. Mycroft didn’t waste bandwidth on nonessentials, a category that, for him, included most social interactions. Knox was one of the few he deigned to favor with his full telepresence.

And what a telepresence! Weathertop’s image enhancer had gone all-out today, painting Mycroft in straw hat, candy-striped jacket, and white ducks, and then bluescreening him into a scene of punting on the Thames.

But the dark, solemn face made an odd contrast with the whimsical Jerome K. Jerome virtuality: In the eighteen months since Knox had last seen him (it doesn’t pay to abuse some privileges), Mycroft had aged. The lines of the lean, regular features seemed incised a little deeper, the grizzled hair peeking out from under the boater had gone grayer, playing catch-up with his scraggly salt-and-pepper beard, and the piercing brown eyes behind the granny glasses were rimmed with circles darker than the mahogany of his cheeks.

They’re working him too hard.

It was hard not to. Mycroft was too damned useful. Not to mention lucrative: If Knox’s billing rate was exorbitant, Mycroft’s was astronomical. You could buy a Bentley for what two weeks’ worth of Finley Laurence’s time would cost you. A well-accessorized Bentley.

Mycroft’s official title — vestige of a time when Richard Moses had foolhardily let his top people make up their own job descriptions — was Senior Vice President for Intractables. Unofficially, he was Archon’s one-man Research Department. Best in the business, if you could get his attention. Knox knew the magic words.

Hi, Mycroft. I’ve got a puzzle for you.

Mycroft couldn’t conceal the gleam in his eye, but all he said was Timeframe?

ASAP — Yesterday, if possible.

Time travel? Mycroft shipped his computer-generated oars and cocked an eyebrow, "I believe you want Mr. Wells — Mr. H. G. Wells. Given my current workload, I’m not sure I could help you with future deliverables, much less past ones."

This is just a quick hack-and-slash. You’ll be done in less time than it would take you to convince me you haven’t got time to do it.

Mycroft sighed. Perhaps a quick look. Search parameters?

I haven’t got much, just an email address. But I have faith in you. Not only was Mycroft a world-class net warrior, he came equipped with an eidetic — what used to be called a photographic — memory to boot. If an elusive factoid couldn’t be found on the web, it was probably catalogued and cross-referenced in the capacious vaults of Mycroft’s cerebral cortex. His quirky brilliance, coupled with his self-imposed exile to a hilltop in rural North Carolina, had earned him his office nickname: The original ‘Mycroft’ was Sherlock Holmes’s smarter, reclusive brother.

And the address is?

Oh, sorry: reack2@crom.doe.gov.

"doe — as in Department of Energy?"

The very same, Knox said, "— crom looks to be one of their subagencies, but there’s no hotlink for them on the DOE homepage, and all my searches come up empty."

"And your interest in this crom is, if I might ask?

They hijacked my email. I want to know why. I want them researched with extreme prejudice.

You can’t imagine any reason the Energy Department might be after you?

Not offhand. I’m all paid up on my utility bills. Oh, and — Mycroft? There’s one other search criterion.

All grist for the mill, Jonathan.

"Right. I’m particularly interested in any connection between this crom crowd and an outfit goes by the name of Grishin Enterprises International. Them, I could find. They’ve got a corporate website at www.gei.ru."

The dubbya-dubbya-dubbya keyphrase inadvertently triggered the desktop’s speech recognizer. A browser-window popped up to display the GEI homepage. Knox left it open. He’d already paid the site a cursory visit, but a re-look couldn’t hurt.

"ru for Russia? Mycroft was saying, Mightn’t this have to do with your former life?"

Knox didn’t answer immediately. He was looking at the homepage logo now filling the browser window: The stylized image of an Ourobouros, crushing the world in its great green coils.

Boris Petrovich Volin watched instant replay of the ultralight landing on the rooftop of his plant. Nicely done, that. He spoke the words that switched his large-screen monitor back to real-time display. Now it showed a uniformed guard escorting pilot and passenger down the access stairs toward the headquarters suite. Volin leaned forward, taking the opportunity to study his guests.

The woman was nondescript, hardly worth a second glance. A dumpy dishwater blonde waging her lonely battle with middle age, and losing.

Her companion was another story altogether.

Perhaps it was just the contrast with the pallid skin and hair of the woman, perhaps some trick of the stairwell lighting or the closed-circuit video, but the man seemed ... dark. A darkness somehow more than physical, though it started with physical attributes, with the black leather flight jacket hugging the hulking frame, with the swarthy complexion of the grim, heavy-boned face, the straight, sable hair and black slashes of eyebrows and mustache, the empty black eyes.

Darkness personified. Volin repressed a shudder.

He swiveled in his chair and called up the instructions he had been emailed regarding this visit. What was the man’s name again? Ah, yes, Geladze, Yuri Vissarionovich Geladze. A Georgian — that explained it. Explained both the dusky Transcaucasian cast of his features and the aura of a ferocity barely held in check.

Volin had keyed his monitor off and was striding out from behind his rosewood desk by the time the visitors were shown into his suite. His Armani suit rustled silkily as he extended a hand.

Welcome to Resource Recovery Systems. Boris Petrovich Volin, General Manager, at your service. We have been expecting you.

Very pleased. Zolotova, Natalya Petrovna. The woman all but curtseyed. Her dark companion merely grunted.

The woman looked simultaneously shaken and relieved. Good. More manageable that way. Merkulov had chosen well: She seemed only too willing to be led by the nose, like a lamb to slaughter. Only too willing to take everything around her at face value.

Including Volin himself. Not that he did not look the part of a chief executive for a major GEI subsidiary: Tall and slim and polished, his angular features framed by wavy brown hair just going gray at the temples — certainly neither he nor his operation bore any resemblance to the low-tech competition in the greater metropolitan area’s thriving waste-disposal business. Still, if pressed, he might have acknowledged more than a little kinship with his rivals of Sicilian extraction, under the skin.

Your driver just phoned in, Volin said, He has encountered congestion at the Lincoln Tunnel. He smiled an apology. — Unfortunate, but only to be expected during peak traffic hours on a weekday. We now estimate your vehicle will not arrive for another forty-five minutes.

The dark man shrugged and nodded, the barest minimum required to keep up his side of the charade. The woman, predictably, acquiesced.

"Since you must