Chapter 1

Lying out there like a killer in the sun,
Hey, I know it's late, we can make it if we run.
Thunder Road, Bruce Springsteen

Da Vinci International Airport, Rome, November 21^st

Janet Lepinski gnawed gently at the inside of her lip as she eyed the figure across from her in the Upper Class lounge, waiting for the flight to Switzerland. Perhaps six feet tall, conservatively dressed as most of the businessmen on these flights were, he moved like dancer as he sat down, folding himself gracefully into place. Broad-jawed and with dark, deep-set eyes, he was broad-shouldered and solid, with a narrow waist and solid legs. Her first impression was that he might be a dancer, but on reflection she was reminded of her last boyfriend at college, who'd been a gymnast. Recalling him, and those six 'athletic' months with a smile, she continued to peer at him over the rim of her glasses.

He met her gaze, eventually, pivoting his head up from his laptop to stare at her. His eyes were shocking, deep, dark holes that sucked her in and analysed her immediately, dismissing her almost as quickly. She felt herself shiver slightly, hastily pushing the thoughts she'd been entertaining from her mind as one of the airport employees cut between them.

"Mr Connolly?" Gavin looked up from his laptop, peering over the top of his thin-framed spectacles at the stewardess who leant over him.

"Yes?" he replied, affecting a slight air of bewilderment. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all, sir." Stepping aside, slightly, she gestured back to the suited figure behind her, enshrouded in an air of bureaucracy. "This is the customs official who'd like to go over your declaration."

"Ah, right." He nodded his thanks, gently, closing the lid on his computer and setting it aside as he rose as shook the man's hand, wondering inside when it was that air-stewardesses suddenly got so old. All through his youth — he was only in his mid-twenties, but he still thought about his 'youth' — air-stewardesses had held an air of mystique: all were beautiful, all were glamorous and dreamworthy.

Several years of flying with innumerable different airlines had jaded that view more than a little, and he wondered idly if it were the working conditions that had led to the change in personnel.

Seeing that the official had finished setting out his paperwork, Gavin removed his glasses, cleaned them on a handkerchief, and then put them back on, peering at the forms.

"You 'ave, Sir, a sword, yes?"

"Yes, that's right. I picked it up as a present for a friend — he's into all those ninja films and things, you see. I was told that I could get it sealed and put into the hold with the other luggage."

"Si, this is correct. But first there are da forms."

"My Italian, I'm afraid, is terrible."

"Dat is not a problem. I 'ave done this before." Leaning over the paperwork Gavin was able to decipher most of the requirements, but he played dumb to maintain his disguise, occasionally casting a cautious glance about the lounge, out of habit more than anything. The forms were almost complete when he caught sight of the old man, again, leaning against one of the large advertisements at the top of the escalator.

"Mr Connolly?"

"I'm sorry," he snapped his attention back to the conversation at hand, gnawing gently at his lip as she slipped from the relaxed pretence into readiness, "what was that?"

"From where did you purchase this sword?"

"Oh, uh... an antiques dealer in Turin. I have the receipt here somewhere..." he turned and dug into his bag, checking the flat-bladed knife — carbon-fibre bladed — was nestled snugly in its x-ray camouflaged holder, and pulled out the falsified paper.

Turning back, he saw that the figure had moved, covering perhaps half the distance in the time it had taken him to retrieve the invoice.

"I think, sir, this should be enough." The bureaucrat smiled, lifting the papers again. "I will 'ave the customs official check them, and then security can release your package to the baggage 'andlers."

"Excellent." Gavin smiled, rising, placing the overweight figure between him and his target to better keep an eye on him. The old man noticed, nodding his welcome beneath the concealing bulk of the hat. For a moment Gavin wondered how he'd managed to get by security with it, then dismissed the thought as pointless.

Turning back to his bags, fully expecting the figure to be closer, he took the opportunity to scan the lounge again, looking for signs that someone else might be watching, but the pair of them seemed to be equally alone. Slipping the sheath up his sleeve, Gavin turned back, and sure enough the old man was gently laying down the woman on the seat opposite who had given him such a lascivious look earlier.

"What have you done to her?" he asked, not threateningly, but with concern, as he seated himself again, laying his hands in his lap in a display of calm that put the knife close at hand.

"Nothing particularly lasting. She'll be drowsy for a few hours, but not catatonic." The old man explained, a smile in his voice. "I wasn't sure you'd be this calm."

"I doubt you'd appreciate a scene at an international airport departure lounge any more than I would."

"True." The old man confirmed. Reaching up with old, weather-beaten hands, he removed the hat and slowly unwound the scarf to reveal a rather nondescript face. Worn, weathered, with surprisingly keen pale-blue eyes, the whole visage had a slightly washed-out look, from the bloodless lips and white hair to the surprisingly faded freckles and liver spots that hid amongst the valleys of the skin.

"What do you want?"

"I told you, I have a job for you. It's even in Paris, so you don't have to go out of your way?" There were a number of almost instant responses that came to mind, but Gavin quickly cycled through them and discarded the majority of them. There was no point denying he was headed for Paris, sat in the lounge he was, and there was less point in playing dumb and pretending to be an IT consultant — the employment listed on the false documentation he'd been using for this trip.

There was, really, only one viable alternative left for the immediate moment.

"Why does this person deserve to have my service arrayed against them?" Frowning, the old-man turned to stare out of the window for a few moments. Gavin watched a few flickers of emotion cross the dry skin, not enough to make any definite assumptions, but it was obvious this wasn't one of the questions he'd been expecting — or perhaps not so quickly.

"That," he began, not turning back, "that isn't something I think I can fully explain in terms you'd understand."

"Then we have nothing further to discuss." Gavin offered, politely.

"He deserves to die."

"Many people do." Gavin explained. "All of them eventually will. I don't do contract work. I don't work for anyone. I choose my own targets, and for my own reasons. Tell me who this person is, and I will judge for myself if they deserve."

"He has been responsible for deaths beyond your ability to count, and more. Torture, theft, sacrifice."

"You have proof of this?"

The old man shook his head as he continued. "Murder, genocide, heresy, blasphemy."

Gavin stared back. "Without proof, I will do nothing."

"Rape." The old man finished, with a soft exhalation, as though reluctant to add to the list, or perhaps reluctant to add that to the list. Gavin surprised himself with his control.

"No proof, no job." Gavin asserted, feeling a slight tightening at the back of his throat.

"You will not take an old man's word?"

"I will not take a life based on it. If you have come seeking me it would doubtless be more than one life, anyway."

"This needs to be done!" the old man hissed, causing a few stares as his voice began to rise slightly.

"Tell me who, and I will look it into it." Staring for a few moments more, as though expecting Gavin to change his mind, the old man stood and sighed.

"You will not take the job." It wasn't really a question.

"I don't do 'jobs'. If you have information for me, give it to me." Wrapping the scarf about his head, the old man sighed again, and began to walk away.

"That's it?" Gavin wondered. "You aren't going to tell me how you found me? Why you came? Who you are?"

"You have a certain fame, in your own circles, Mr Connolly. I came for my own reasons. I am called... Camael." He turned, briefly, flicking a card across the intervening distance. Gavin assessed the danger instantly and caught it with ease, fingertips pinching the flat sides of the paper to keep the edges away from his skin. Turning it, he glanced at it briefly, taking in the elaborate swirls and embellishments that made up the motif on the reverse, and flipped it to reveal a phone number somewhere in Philadelphia.

He looked up, watched him go, patiently keeping himself in the seat for ten minutes or more — until the woman opposite began to rise — before rising to replace his knife in his back, confident that the meeting was at an end.

He didn't believe for a minute that Camael would consider the matter closed, but the issue was closed for today, and all Gavin wanted was to get away from all the people — first, Paris, and then across the channel and home.

Orly Airport, Paris, November 21^st

Caerys ached. Every joint, every muscle, every sinew. The jolt of the plane hitting the tarmac shot up through the boards beneath her, grating the untreated wood across her nakedness, and jolting her unsupported head off her own knees. She was flexible — it was a requirement — but the human body was not designed to be kept in positions like this for any length of time.

The cords binding her forearms together had long ago numbed her fingers, her usually pale skin mottled blue and purple by the trapped blood, she could just see in the light that filtered between the boards of the crate. Bent double at the waist, her breasts pressed painfully into her knees — for the briefest of instants she felt glad she wasn't as big as Eileen in the next crate — she hadn't been able to draw a proper breath in the eight hours since take-off, and wouldn't have been able to raise a decent shout to attract attention anyway, even if the gag hadn't been stuffed in her mouth.

She'd been roused once during the travel, dragged painfully out of the crate and used again — they hadn't even untied her — before being dumped back into place, the wood pressing down on the back of her head just as she began to breath comfortably. She was sure she was bleeding, but it was far from the first time for that. Muffled voices sounded outside, voices negotiating the fee for bypassing the usual channels at customs, and then she felt herself battered against the side of the crate as it was hauled into the air and dumped, not gently. It was too dark to see what was beneath the crate, but the faint smell of petrol told her it was a car, and the sound of a sliding door revised her estimate to a van, as the dark returned.

She was hungry and thirsty, and she'd felt a telling pressure in her bladder for well over an hour — she wasn't sure exactly how long; time seemed to stretch interminably in the crate — but she knew she'd be fed and watered when they were ready, and the punishment for soiling the crate would make her glad for the opportunity she'd have to get back into — uncleaned — later.

In the meantime, all she could do was wait, and despite the discomfort she found herself lulled into a doze by the slight swaying of the van as it wound its way from the airport to their destination.

The door slid open again, waking her, and the light seemed bright until her eyes adjusted, and she realised it was a dull, grey, overcast day. The wind was cold, whistling through the crate and bringing goosebumps to her skin, as well as other reactions that she knew would elicit a response when she got out.

The crate lid lifted, easing the pressure on her head, though her arms bound underneath her legs prevented her sitting up. Rough, calloused hands grabbed her ankles, lifting her legs with ease, and a practiced hand flicked her sex painfully before the cold metal of a knife rested against her forearms and slashed through the bindings. Blood rushed through the constricted veins, and she felt her legs cramping as she was suddenly granted a little mobility.

Lifting herself painfully over the side she almost fell to the floor, stumbling on the loose gravel of the car park that bit painfully into the soles of her feet, she forced herself to stand upright, massaging life back into her fingers and dragging the gag out of her mouth. Sympathy would be in short supply, and she needed to be ready to move when told. She felt awkward standing naked in the open, but she pushed that aside as she quickly peered around. The buildings were different to what she was used to — the sun lower in the sky confirmed that she'd travelled a long way — but peering over a nearby church she spied the distinctive metalwork of the Eiffel Tower, and felt a burst of exultation.

Paris! She forced herself not to dance, and not only for the state of her feet. He's really brought me to Paris... this is it!!!

She spun, quickly, ignoring the pain from her aching muscles and shredding feet, to tell Eileen, and the euphoria died almost instantly. The four handlers stood around the crate muttering quietly to themselves, and she tried to press through them to see.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she demanded, as one of them pushed her aside. "Get her the fuck ou..." She was cut off by a short, sharp punch that landed just below her rib-cage, driving the breath out of her just as she'd started to get it back. As she tried to force herself to her feet, silence descended and her father appeared at the side of the crate.

"Dead?" he asked, in a near whisper.

"Suffocated, I reckon." Kwan nodded. None of them showed any signs of sympathy, though they cringed a little at what might become of them if her father was displeased.

"We only need one. Bring her."

Hard, painful fingers dug into her upper arms, dragging her upright as she wept and turned to try and see the figure still folded into the crate behind her.

"BASTARDS!" she screamed, focussing her rage on her father in front of them, turning him on the spot. His hand gripped her chin painfully, tilting her head back painfully stretching her neck.

"Feed the remains," he intoned, quietly, "to Nadal. If she screams again, cut out her tongue. She no longer has need of it." The blood drained from her face, carried away by the silent tears as she hung limply and let herself be taken.

Gare de Lyon, Paris, November 21^st

Sophie managed not to scurry as she followed, but she was forced to lengthen her stride a little to keep up. She didn't know if she was convincing the soldiers behind her that she was following willingingly — she doubted it — but more than anything at that moment she just wanted to be on her way. Whatever Georg was mixed up in she wanted nothing to do with it.

Georg pointed, absently, to a nearby jeep, and she meekly shuffled in to the seating area at the back, surprised when one of the two guards slid in beside her. The bulky mass of the pistol at his belt dug into her side, but she just hunched herself a little and leant away from him, settling her arm atop the thin metal of the vehicle's frame.

Her eyes watched Georg and his military friend, the Doctor considerably more animated than she could recall having seen him before, but her mind wasn't really on their conversation at all. In her memory she kept seeing the poor, twisted wretch in the tank, contorted and deformed, and she wondered what exactly was wrong with him.

Georg was, by specialty, a neurologist, and despite the distended skull she recalled there was nothing to indicate that the patient's condition was brain-related. In fact, she'd never heard of anything even remotely like it as a medical condition, and staring around at the collection of secret military personnel she was compelled to wonder if the medical staff was treating his condition, or inducing it.

Experimentation wasn't unheard of — it hadn't been admitted or proven either — but it wasn't something she would have expected to find in France. America, perhaps, maybe even Britain, but not France. And not on such a scale, either. Laboratory mice would have been beyond anything she might consider the world ready for in such things. Her mind flashed over possibilities, gene manipulation and drug-therapies foremost in her estimation, and then shook her head clear.

This was Georg, after all, who'd taught her not just the science of the brain, but the wonders of it, the miracle of thought and thinking, and the responsibilities that came with it. Georg who'd gotten drunk with her and helped her forget about Eliot when he'd left, who'd stayed sober with her and helped her come to terms with having a baby.

Every year he'd sent Christophe a card on his birthday, and a present at Christmas. This wasn't the sort of man that could twist people like that, for anything. Was it? He turned away from his conversation as she was thinking about him, staring down the line of vehicles queueing up behind her, and in that flat, malevolent stare she suddenly wasn't so sure.

Turning her gaze away, finding tears in her eyes at the possibility — and not wanting the soldier to see them — she stared at her own reflection in the wing-mirror. Short, barely five feet tall, intelligent dark eyes stared back at her, only slight red and liquid from the suppressed tears. Her cheekbones were high and wide, suiting the dusky skin she'd inherited from her Italian mother, and her hair hung dark and straight down her back, pulled back from her face in a simple but not stark pony-tail.

She was carrying a little more weight than she was entirely happy with — although it hadn't done anything to stop some of the soldiers eyeing her as she had been walking around, she suddenly realised — but with work and bringing up Christophe on her own she allowed herself a little latitude. She looked up at the soldier beside her, saw him staring down at her face... past her face, into the top of her blouse!... and tugged the lab-coat tighter about herself. Folding her arms — realising too late that that undid most of the good work folding the coat had done — she gave the soldier the sort of stare Christophe got when he'd been misbehaving, but all she got in return was a slightly leering, insolent grin that didn't get anywhere near the soldier's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sophie, that you've been dragged into things this way." Georg suddenly appeared beside the jeep, slipping into the front seat in front of her guard. "I promise I will explain later, but there are things you don't know about this project, and I think it's better they come from me than you find them out for yourself."

"What things, Georg?" She demanded, angry with his condescending tone.

"Later, Sophie."

"Don't patronise me, Georg. I'm not a little girl."

"Doctor Barthez. You will be told what you need to know, when you need to know it." Georg's tone dropped like a rock, and Sophie stiffened, shock and anger straightening her back in equal measure.

"I see." She spat, flinging herself back in the seat. "Doctor Barthez, now? When did we get so formal, Doctor Roffmai?"

"When you endangered the safety and security of this project." He bit back, then took an obvious moment to calm himself. "Sophie, please. I know this is difficult, but this isn't just health directives and medical ethics at play." He twisted further, grimacing at the flex in his already distorted spine, and reaching for her hand. "This has not been orchestrated as well it might, I know, and that is my fault. My frustrations shouldn't be taken out on you, and this little diversion here only adds to everything."